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of    the    State    Efbuse, 

HARTFORD. 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 
THE   LIBRARY  OF 


PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


/  /- 


M^f^^L^  ^d^c  J/'Afj'g^ 


6 


the 


J  of  p* 
NOV  17  1934 


^> 


AMERICAN 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK 


POETRY, 


WITH    OCCASIONAL    NOTES. 


BY    GEORGE   B.   CHEEVER 


BOSTON: 


PUBLISHED   BY  CARTER,  HENDEE  AND  BABCOCK 
BALTIMORE:      CHARLES     CARTER. 


183J. 


DISTRICT  OF  MASSACHUSETTS,  TO  WIT : 

District  Clerk's  Office. 

Be  it  remembered,  That  on  the  seventh  day  of  January,  A.  D.  1831, 
in  the  fifty-fifth  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of 
America,  Carter,  Hexdee  and  Babcock,  of  the  said  district,  have 
deposited  in  this  office  the  title  of  a  book,  the  right  whereof  they  claim  as 
proprietors,  in  the  words  following,  to  wit: — 

"  The  American  Common-Place  Book  of  Poetry,  with  Occasional 
Notes.     By  George  B.  Cheever."' 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled, 
"An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of 
maps,  charts  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies, 
during  the  times  therein  mentioned  ;"  and  also  to  an  act,  entitled, 
"An  Act  supplementary  to-an  act,  entitled,  'An  Act  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts  and  books,  to 
the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  times  therein 
mentioned  ;•  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  design- 
ing, engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other  prints." 


T\T)    W    DAVTS    \  Clerk  of  the  District 


Hiram   Tupper,    Printer. 


PREFACE. 


The  unexpected  favor,  with  which  the  American 
Common -Place  Book  of  Prose  was  received,  encouraged 
its  publishers  to  hope  that  a  similar  volume  of  extracts 
from  American  poetry  might  be  attended  with  the  same 
success.  It  is  true,  that  there  are  more  good  prose  writers 
in  our  country  than  there  are  poets ;  but  it  would  be 
strange,  indeed,  if  enough  of  really  excellent  poetry  could 
not  be  found  to  fill  a  volume  like  this.  It  is  not  pretended 
that  every  piece,  in  the  following  selection,  is  a  stately 
and  perfect  song,  inspired  by  "  the  vision  and  the  faculty 
divine,"  and  containing,  throughout,  the  true  power  and 
spirit  of  harmony ;  but  every  lover  of  poetry  will  find 
much  to  delight  a  cultivated  imagination,  and  much  to 
set  him  on  thinking ;  and  every  religious  mind  will  be 
pleased  that  a  volume  of  American  poetry,  so  variously 
selected,  presents  so  many  pages  imbued  with  the  feelings 
of  devotion.  If  all  the  extracts  are  not  of  sufficient 
excellence  to  excite  vivid  admiration,  most  of  them  are 
of  the  kind  that  meet  us 

Like  a  pleasant  thought, 
When  such  are  wanted. 


4  PREFACE. 

They  are  generally  simple  and  unpretending  in  ornament 
quiet  and  unambitious  in  their  spirit. 

The  poetiy  of  devotion  is  the  rarest  of  all  poetry.  It 
is  sad  to  think  how  few,  of  all  the  poets  in  the  English 
language,  have  possessed  or  exhibited  the  Christian 
character,  or  had  the  remembrance  of  their  names 
associated  with  the  thoughts  of  Christ  and  his  cross,  or 
the  feelings  to  which  the  great  theme  of  redemption  gives 
rise  in  the  bosom  of  the  Christian.  We  may  find  plenty  of 
the  sentimentality  of  religion,  expressed,  too,  in  beautiful 
language — but  as  cold  as  a  winter  night's  transitory 
frost-work  on  our  windows.  A  few  beloved  volumes, 
indeed,  have  their  place  in  the  heart ;  but  they  are  few ; 
and  of  these  the  praise  belongs  not  exclusively  to  the 
genius  of  poetry,  but  to  a  far  more  precious  and  elevated 
spirit — the  spirit  of  the  Bible.  What  bosom,  that 
possesses  this,  does  not  contain  the  germ  of  deep  poetry  ? 
What  poet  has  experienced  its  influence,  whose  song 
does  not  breathe  an  echo  of  the  melodies  of  paradise  ? 
In  the  true  minstrelsy  of  devotion,  there  is  a  higher 
excellence  than  that  of  mere  genius.  Poetry  herself 
acknowledges  a  power  which  is  not  in  her,  and 
observes  a  deep  and  sublime  emotion  excited,  which 
she  cannot,  unassisted,  produce  or  maintain  in  the  souls 
of  her  listeners.  When  she  becomes  the  handmaid  of 
piety,  she  finds  herself  adorned  and  enriched  (in  another 


PREFACE.  5 

sense  than  Virgil's)  with  a  heauty  and  a  wealth  that 
are  not  her  own : 

Miraturque  novos  fructus,  et  non  sua  poma. 

All  the  pieces  in  this  volume  are  of  the  purest  moral 
character ;  and,  considering  its  limits,  and  the  comparative 
scantiness  of  American  poetry,  a  good  number  of  them 
contain,  in  an  uncommon  degree,  the  religious  and 
poetical  spirit  united.  The  importance  of  having  books 
of  this  nature  sweet  and  chaste  in  their  moral  influence, 
as  well  as  refined  in  their  intellectual  and  poetical 
character,  is  not  enough  appreciated.  None  can  tell  how 
much  good  a  volume  like  this  may  accomplish,  if  an 
editor  keeps  such  a  purpose  in  view.  A  thought  upon 
death  and  eternity  may  be  rendered  acceptable,  through 
the  medium  of  poetry,  to  many  a  mind,  that  would 
otherwise  have  fled  from  its  approach.  A  voice  from  the 
grave  and  the  other  world  may  possibly  here  find  hearers 
who  would  listen  to  it  no  where  else.  A  devout  and 
solemn  reflection  may  steal,  with  the  poetry  of  this 
volume,  into  the  most  secret  recess  of  some  careless 
heart,  and  there,  through  the  goodness  of  Him,  who 
moves  in  a  hidden  and  mysterious  way,  "his  wonders 
to  perform,"  and  whose  spirit  can  touch  the  soul  with 
the  humblest  instruments,  prove  the  first  rising  of  that 
blessed  well  of  water,  which  springeth  up  to  everlasting 
life. 

1  * 


6 


PREFACE. 


Many  of  the  finest  pieces  in  this  volume  have  been 
drawn  out  from  corners  where  they  had  long  lain 
forgotten  and  neglected.  Some  of  the  devotional 
melodies  are  almost  as  sweet  as  any  in  the  language. 
There  are  several  fugitive  anonymous  pieces,  that 
deserve  a  place  along  with  those  of  the  truest  poets 
The  extracts  from  acknowledged  sources  are  as  various 
as  they  are  beautiful.  None  can  describe  nature  with 
a  simpler  and  more  affecting  beauty  than  Bryant 
None  could  draw  an  American  landscape  in  truei 
colors,  and  throw  more  endearingly  around  it  the 
charm  of  moral  and  devout  reflection,  than  Wilcox.  In 
die  bold  delineation  of  external  scenery,  and  in  painting 
human  passion,  philosophy,  religion,  and  the  domestic 
affections,  none  have  displayed  a  more  powerful  fancy, 
or  a  deeper  pathos  of  feeling,  than  Dana.  Few  have 
written  nobler  odes  than  Pierpont.  Burns  himself 
could  hardly  have  thrown  off  a  sweeter  extempore 
effusion  than  some  of  Brainard's.  In  the  difficult  field 
of  sacred  drama,  Hillhouse  has  shown  a  rich  and  classic 
imagination.  Few  will  contest  the  beauty  of  Willis's 
Scripture  pieces.  Others  might  be  named,  whose  poetry 
at  once  individualizes  their  genius  in  the  mind ;  but  it  is 
unnecessary.  May  the  volume,  thus  selected,  please  and 
do  good. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Page. 

A  Sacred  Melody Anonymous.  17 

Active  Christian  Benevolence  the  Source  of  Happiness.   Carlos  Wilcoz.  17 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  into  a  Wood Bryant.  19 

The  Death  of  Sin  and  the  Life  of  Holiness R.  H.  Dana.  20 

A  Demon's  false  Description  of  fallen  Intelligences.     .        Hillhouse.  22 

Hadad's  Description  of  the  City  of  David Hillhouse.  25 

The  Song  at  Twilight Lucretia  Maria  Davidson.  25 

Hagar  in  the  Wilderness JV.  P.  Willis.  27 

Return  of  the  Buccaneer R.  H.  Dana.  30 

Appearance  of  the  Spectre  Horse  and  the  Burning  Ship.    R.  H.  Dana.  31 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers Bryant.  35 

The  Skies Bryant.  36 

From"  The  Minstrel  Girl." J.  G.  Whittier.  37 

u  Weep  for  yourselves,  and  for  your  Children."  .     .     Mrs.  Sigourney.  38 

The  sudden  coming  on  of  Spring  after  long  Rains.    .        Carlos  Wilcox.  39 

Slavery Carlos  Wilcoz.  41 

Hymn  for  the  African  Colonization  Society Pierpont.  42 

Dedication  Hymn Pierpont.  43 

Evening  Music  of  the  Angels Hillhouse.  AA 

Vernal  Melody  in  the  Forest Carlos  Wilcoz.  45 

Close  of  the  Vision  of  Judgment Hillhouse.  46 

"  As  thy  Day,  so  shall  thy  Strength  be."   .     .     .     .       Mrs.  Sigourney,  48 

The  Pilgrims Mrs.  Sigourney.  48 

The  Coral  Grove Percival.  50 

Hebrew  Melody. Mrs.  J.  G.  Brooks.  51 

To  a  Child Anonymous.  51 

The  Western  World Bryant.  52 

To  a  Waterfowl Bryant.  54 

The  Constancy  of  Nature  contrasted  with  the  Changes  in  Life.   Dana.  t£5 

"  And  fare  thee  well,  my  own  green,  quiet  Vale."  ....       Dana.  56 

Sonnet      The  Free  Mind W.L.  Garrison.  57 

Marco  Bozzaris F.  G.  Halleck.  58 

Weehawken F.  G.  Halleck.  60 

On  laying  the  Corner  Stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument.      Pierpont.  61 


O  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

Ta?e. 

Rousseau  and  Cowper Carlos  Wilcox.     6L 

To  the  Dead Brainard.     63 

The  Deep Brainard.     64 

Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower Andrews  Norton     65 

The  Child's  Wish  in  June .     Mrs.  Gilman.    66 

From  "  The  Minstrel  Girl." J.  G.  Whittier.    66 

Description  of  a  sultry  Summer's  Noon Carlos  Wilcox.    68 

The  Dying  Child Christian  Examiner.     70 

Looking  unto  Jesus Christian  Examiner.     71 

Scene  from  Hadad Hillhousc.     72 

Roman  Catholic  Chaunt.     From  "  Percy's  Masque."       .     •  Hillhouse.    76 

Song "    .     .     .    From  the  Talisman.     11 

September Carlos  Wilcox.    11 

On  the  Loss  of  Professor  Fisher Brainard.     78 

Idle  Words Anonymous.    79 

"  He  knoweth  our  Frame,  He  remembereth  we  are  Dust."  R.  H.  Dana.    80 

Immortality R.  H.Dana.     80 

The  mysterious  Music  of  Ocean.       .     .     .    Walsh's  National  Gazette.    82 

Summer  Wind '  . -  .     .     .      Bryant.     83 

Summer  Evening  Lightning Carlos  Wilcox.    84 

Spring JV.P.  Willis.    85 

To  Seneca  Lake.    .     . Percival.    85 

Mount  Washington  ,  N.  H G.  Mellen.    86 

To  the  Dying  Year J.  G.  Whittier.     87 

The  Captain.     A  Fragment Brainard.     88 

"  They  that  seek  me  early,  shall  find  me."     .     .     .       Columbian  Star.     89 

A  Son's  Farewell  to  his  Mother,  &c Connecticut  Observer.    90 

"  Hushed  is  the  "Voice  of  Judah's  Mirth."  .  From  the  Port-Folio.  90 
Extract  from  a  Poem  delivered  at  the  Departure  of  the  Senior  Class  of 

Yale  College,  in  1826 JV.  P.  Willis.    91 

Retirement Anonymous.    94 

To  the  River  Arve Talisman.    95 

The  Burial Anonymous.     96 

On  the  Loss  of  a  pious  Friend Brainard.    96 

Icarus From  the  Port-Folio.    97 

Sunset  in  September. Carlos  Wilcox.     98 

From  "  The  Buccaneer." R.  H.  Dana.  100 

Bminet Bryant.  101 

Power  of  the  Soul  in  investing  external  Circumstances  with  the  Hue  of 

its  own  Feelings R.  H.  Dana.  102 

Spring  in  Town Bryant.  103 

The  Sabbath ,     .    Carlos  Wilcox.  105 

Industry  and  Prayer Carlos  Wilcox.  106 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS.  V 

Page. 

Consolations  of  Religion  to  the  Poor Percival.  107 

Extract  from  "  The  Airs  of  Palestine." Pierpont.  107 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Woodward,  at  Edinburgh Brainard.  109 

From  "The  Minstrel  Girl." J.  G.  Whittier.  110 

The  Torn  Hat JV.  P.  WUUs.  Ill 

"  The  Memory  of  the  Just  is  blessed."       ....       Mrs.  Sigourney.  112 

The  Wife J\T.  Y.  Daily  Advertiser.  113 

Song  of  the  Stars Bryant.  114 

Summer  Evening  at  a  short  Distance  from  the  City.     .      Alonzo  Lewis.  115 
Introduction  to  the  Poem  of  "  Yamoyden."  .     .     .     Robert  C.  Sands.  116 

Dawn JV.  P.  Willis.  119 

The  Restoration  of  Israel J.  W.  Eastbum.  120 

The  Buried  Love Rufus  Dawes.  121 

The  Missionary W.  B.  Tappan.  123 

Missions Mrs.  Sigourney.  123 

The  Fear  of  Madness Lucretia  Maria  Davidson.  125 

The  Matin  Hour  of  Prayer Anonymous.  125 

Song From  Yamoyden.  127 

Solitude. Mrs.  Sigourney.  127 

Bishop  Ravenscroft. G.  W.  Doane.  128 

The  Life  of  God  in  the  Soul  of  Man R.  H.  Dana.  130 

To  Pneuma.      . .     .     .     .     J.  W.  Eastbum.  133 

To  a  Star Lucretia  Maria  Davidson.  134 

Thanatopsis Bryant.  135 

Sacred  Melody JV.  Y.  American.  137 

The  Graves  of  the  Patriots Percival.  138 

Funeral  Hymn Christian  Examiner.  139 

To  Laura,  two  Years  of  Age JV.  P.  Willis.  141 

*'  The  dead  Leaves  strew  the  Forest-walk."      ....       Brainard.  142 

Seasons  of  Prayer Henry  Ware,  Jr.  143 

Effect  of  the  Ocean  and  its  Scenery  on  the  Mind  of  the  Buccaneer,  when 

agitated  with  Remorse  for  his  Crime R.  H.  Dana.  145 

The  third  and  last  Appearance  of  the  Spectre  Horse,  &c.  R.  H.  Dana.  147 

God's  first  Temples.     A  Hymn Bryant.  149 

Scene  from  "  Hadad." Hillhouse.  152 

Extract  from  "  The  Airs  of  Palestine." Pierpont.  156  -^ 

The  Falls  of  Niagara Brainard.  157 

At  Musing  Hour T.  Wells.  157 

Evergreens Pinkney.  158 

The  Flower  Spirit Anonymous.  158 

"  Man  giveth  up  the  Ghost,  and  where  is  he?"       Christian  Examiner.  159 

Woods  in  Winter Longfellow.  160 

A  Last  Wish Anonymous.  161 


10  TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The  Winged  Worshippers Charles  Sprague.  162 

Death  of  an  Infant Mrs.  Sigourney.  163 

Burns F.  G.  Halleck.  163 

Mary  Magdalen.     From  the  Spanish Bryant.  166 

Be  Humble Janes.  167 

Sabbath  Evening  Twilight Anonymous.  168 

The  Burial  of  Arnold JV.  P.  Willis.  169 

Lines  to  a  Child  on  his  Voyage  to  France,  &c.    .     .     Henry  Ware,  Jr.  170 

New  England .    Percival.  172 

The  Damsel  of  Peru Bryant.  173 

Power  of  Maternal  Piety Mrs.  Sigourney.  175 

Niagara.     From  the  Spanish.    U.  States  Review  and  Literary  Gazette.  Ill 

Absalom • J\T.  P.  Willis.  178 

Hymn  of  Nature W.  0.  B.  Peabody.  181 

The  Garden  of  Gethsemane Pierpont.    183 

Trust  in  God Percival.  183 

Heaven * f  Christian  Examiner.  184 

Geehale.     An  Indian  Lament Anonymous.  185 

Scene  from  "Percy's  Masque." Hillhouse.  186 

To  S****,  weeping Anonymous.  191 

Autumn Longfellow.  193 

The  Bucket Samuel  Woodworth.  194 

The  Snow-Flake Hannah  F.  Gould.  195 

"  I  am  the  Way,  and  the  Truth,  and  the  Life."      .     .     .   Anonymous.  196 

The  Iceberg J.O.Rockwell.  197 

Hymn Pierpont.  198 

The  Bride Anonymous.  199 

On  seeing  an  Eagle  pass  near  me  in  Autumn  Twilight.   .      G.  Mellen.  200 
To  the  Hon.  Theodore  Frelinghuysen,  on  reading  his  eloquent  Speech 

in  Defence  of  Indian  Rights W.  L.  Garrison.  201 

Genius  Slumbering Percival.  202 

Genius  Waking Percival.  204 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry Longfellow.  206 

Incomprehensibility  of  God Miss  Elizabeth  Townsend.  207 

Lament  of  a  Swiss  Minstrel  over  the  Ruins  of  Goldau.     .     .    J.  JVeal.  209 
^iines  on  visiting  the  Burying-Ground  at  New  Haven.  Christian  Disciple.  211 

^Tho  Pilgrim  Fathers Pierpont.  211 

Song  of  the  Pilgrims T.  C.  Upham.  212 

Dedication  Hymn JV.  P.  Willis.  213 

Extract  from  a  Poem  written  on  reading  an  Account  of  the  Opinions 
of  a  Deaf  and  Dumb  Child,  before  she  had  received  Instruction. 

She  was  afraid  of  the  Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars Hillhouse.  214 

The  Land  of  the  Blest W.  O.  B.  Peabody.  215 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS.  11 

Page. 

To  the  Moon Massachusetts  Spy.  216 

Song.  ...  From  Yamoyden.  217 

The  Light  of  Home Mrs.  Hale.  218 

The  American  Flag F.  G.  Hallcck.  218 

To  the  Ursa  Major Henry  Ware,  Jr.  220 

"  Look  not  upon  the  Wine  when  it  is  red.'*  ....      A".  P.  Willis.  224 
To  ****,  on  the  Death  of  a  Friend.       .     .     .     .     .     Andrews  Norton.  225 

Dirge  of  Alaric  the  Visigoth Edward  Everett.  225 

Apostrophe  to  the  Sun Percival.  223 

"  I  thought  it  slept." Henry  Pickering.  230 

The  Snow-Storm Anonymous.  231 

"  I  went  and  washed,  and  I  received  sight."  New  York  Evening  Post.  232 

The  Huma Louisa  P.  Smith.  233 

The  Paint  King Washington  Allston.  233 

The  murdered  Traveller Bryant.  239 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake F.  G.  Halleck.  240 

To  H Christian  Examiner.  240 

The  Dying  Raven.      .     .     ". R.  H.  Dana.  241 

After  a  Tempest Bryant.  244 

A  Winter  Scene Idle  Man.  24G 

Description  of  the  Quiet  Island R.  H.  Dana.  247 

The  Religious  Cottage D.  Huntington.  248 

The  two  Homes Anonymous.  249 

To  a  Sister Edward  Everett.  250 

To  the  Moon Walsh's  National  Gazette.  251 

My  native  Land — My  native  Place Anonymous.  252 

"  Awake,  Psaltery  and  Harp  •,  I  myself  will  awake  early."  Anonymous.  253 

Isaiah  xxxv Brainard.  254 

On  listeuing  to  a  Cricket Andrews  Norton.  255 

March Bryant.  256 

April Longfellow.  257 

May Percival.  258 

Mounds  on  the  Western  Rivers M.  Flint.  259 

Burial  of  the  Minisink Longfellow.  260 

To  the  Eagle Percival.  262 

Salmon  River Brainard.  264 

To  the  Evening  Wind Bryant.  265 

The  Grave  of  the  Indian  Chief. Percival.  267 

Escape  from  Winter Percival.  267 

Bury  me  with  my  Fathers Andrews  Norton.  269 

Redemption W.  B.  Tappan.  269 

On  the  Close  of  the  Year Christian  Examiner.  270 

Saturday  Afternoon. V.  P.  mills.  271 


12  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

Prize. 

Fall  of  Tecumsoh Jfcw  York  Statesman.  272 

The  Missionaries'  Farewell Anonymous.  274 

Mozart's  Requiem Rufus  Dawes.  275 

"  I  will  be  glad  in  the  Lord."     Psalm  civ.  34 Anonymous.  276 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Brother Anonymous.  Qll 

A  Home  everywhere .     .     .    S.  Graham.  278 

The  Time  to  Weep Anonymous.  280 

The  Autumn  Evening W.O.B.  Peabody.  281 

Lines  on  revisiting  the  Country Bryant.  2i2 

The  Spirit's  Song  of  Consolation F.  W.  P.  Greenwood.  283 

Colonization  of  Africa Brainard.  284 

Fable  of  the  Wood  Rose  and  the  Laurel.        .     .     Monthly  Anthology.  284 

A  Castle  in  the  Air ' Professor  Frisbie.  288 

The  Consumptive Rockingham  Gazette.  288 

Lines  to  the  Western  Mummy.     .  ( W.  E.  Gallaudet.  289 

Song Anonijmous.  291 

The  Life  of  the  Blessed.     From  the  Spanish Bryant.  291 

The  Sunday  School. Mrs.  Sigourney.  292 

"  They  went  out  into  the  Mount  of  Olives." Pi crpont.  293 

The  Lily '.     . -.     .     .     .    Percival.  294 

The  Last  Evening  before  Eternity Hillhouse.  294 

Wyoming Halleck.  29G 

Sonnet  to Bryant.  298 

Daybreak R.  H.  Dana.  298 

Sonnet Bnjant.  300 

Hymn  for  the  Massachusetts  Charitable  Mechanic  Association. 

Pierpont.  301 

The  little  Beach  Bird R.  H.  Dana.  302 

Address  of  the  Sylph  of  Autumn  to  the  Bard.    .     Washington  Allston.  303 

Omnipresence Anonymous.  305 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  at  the  Consecration  of  Pulaski's  Banner. 

Longfellow.  306 

The  Raising  of  Jairus's  Daughter *V.  A.  Review.  307 

Departure  of  the  Pioneer Brainard.  308 

The  Alpine  Flowers Mrs.  Sigourney.  309 

A  Child's  first  Impression  of  a  Star JV.  P.    JFillis.  310 

The  Leper JV.  P.  IVillis.  310 

Versification  of  the  Beginning  of  the  Last  Book  of  the  Martyrs. 

Alexander  H.  Everett.  314 

Autumn Anonymous.  315 

The  Treasure  that  waxeth  not  old D.  Huntingdon.  316 

Fragment  of  an  Epistle  written  while  recovering  from  severe  Illness. 

R.  H.  Dana.  318 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS.  13 

Page. 
Lines  occasioned  by  hearing  a  little  Boy  mock  the  Old  South  Clock,  as 

it  rung  the  Hour  of  Twelve Mrs.  Child.  321 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star Bryant.  322 

Connecticut.    From  an  unpublished  Poem F.  O.  Halleck.  323 

The  Rising  Moon W.  0.  B.  Peabody.  325 

America  to  Great  Britain W.  Allston.  326 

The  Night-flowering  Cereus Unitarian  Miscellany.  327 

God  is  Good.     . Anonymous.  328 

Manifestation  of  Christ  to  the  Gentiles Anonymous.  329 

The  Dying  Child Carlos  Wilcox.  £30 

To  a  Musquito JVew  York  Review.  331 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  Voices,  praises  God Longfellow.  332 

The  Blind  Man's  Lament J.  W.  Eastburn.  334 

The  Dying  Girl Mrs.  Hale's  Magazine.  335 

Autumn W.  O.  B.  Peabody.  336 

Spring W.O.B.  Peabody.  336 

Summer W.O.B.  Peabody.  337 

Rosalie Mrs.  Hale's  Magazine.  338 

To  a  young  Invalid,  condemned,  by  accidental  Lameness,  to  perpetual 

Confinement Henry  Pickering.  339 

The  Sage  of  Caucasus Hdlhouse.  340 

The  Resolution  of  Ruth Christian  Examiner.  341 

Live  for  Eternity Carlos  Wilcox.  342 

Dedication  Hymn Pierpont.  343 

The  Indian  Summer Brainard.  344 

To  William.     Written  by  a  bereaved  Father.     .      W.  0.  B.  Peabody.  345 

Part  of  the  19th  Psalm J.  W.  Eastburn.  347 

"  What  is  that,  Mother  ?" G.  W.  Doane.  347 

Scene  at  the  Death-Bed  of  Rev.  Dr.  Payson.  .     .     .      Mrs.  Sigourney.  348 

The  Indian's  Tale J.  G.  Wliittier.  349 

Setting  Sail Percival.  351 

A  Thanksgiving  Hymn Henry  Ware,  Jr.  353 

The  Temple  of  Theseus J.  W.  Eastburn.  355 

On  the  Death  of  a  beautiful  young  Girl.     .     .     .      Connecticut  Mirror.  356 

Lines  to  a  Lady  of  great  musical  Talent Mrs.    Child.  356 

Hymn  for  the  two  hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Settlement  of  Charles- 
town Pierpont.  357 

The  Family  Bible Anonymous.  359 

The  Notes  of  the  Birds /.  MeLellan,  Jr.  359 

Sentimental  Music F.  G.  Halleck.  362 

The  Silk  Worm Mrs.  Hale.  363 

2 


14  TABLE   OF  CONTENTS. 

Page. 
The  Reverio.     Written  from  College  on  the  Birth  Day  of  the  Author's 

Mother Frisbie.  364 

The  Soul's  Defiance Anonymous.  365 

Hymn  for  the  second  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  City  of  Boston. 

Pierpont.  366 

Napoleon  at  Rest Pierpont.  368 

The  Death  of  Napoleon J.  McLellan,  Jr.  369 

Jerusalem Brainard.  370 

The  Angler's  Song J.  McLellan,  Jr.  37a 

Who  is  my  Neighbor  ? Anonymous.  373 

Hymn.     Matthew,  xxvi.  6 — 13 Christian  Mirror.  374 

'  Broken-hearted,  weep  no  more."  ....       Episcopal  Watchman.  375 

Tlie  Sweet  Brier " Brainard.  376 

Mother,  What  is  Death  ? Mr*.  Qilman.  376 

Last  Prayers.     ...'.... Mary  Ann  Browne.  377 

A  Noon  Scene Bryant.  379 

New  England's  Dead /.  McLellan,  Jr.  381 

Installation  Hymn.     . Pierpont.  382 

The  Wanderer  of  Africa Alonzo  Lewis.  383 

A  Legend .' '.     .  J.  G.  Whittier.  384 

"  They  heard  a  Voice  from  Heaven,  saying,  Come  up  hither."     Rev. 

xi.  12 Mrs.  Sigourney.  386 

Occasional  Hymn Pierpont.  387 

The  Sleeper Commercial  Advertiser.  388 

God's  Omnipresent  Agency Carlos  Wilcox.  389 

The  Farewell Anonymous.  389 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills Anonymous.  390 

Lines  on  passing  the  Grave  of  my  Sister Micah  P.  Flint.  391 

The  Revellers Ohio  Backicoodsman.  393 

"I  would  not  live  always." B.  B.  Thatcher.  394 

The  Disimbo'l'-e-i  Spirit W.  0.  B.  Peabody.  395 

Lines  on  hea.  ..:0  of  the  Death  of  Garafilia  Mohalbi.      Mrs.  Sigourney.  396 

Crossing  the  Ford 0.    W.  H.  396 

Hymn  of  the  Cherokee  Indian I.  McLellan,  Jr.  397 

Lake  Superior S.  G.  Goodrich.  398 

Oriental  Mysticism. Leonard  Woods.  400 

To  a  Sister  about  to  embark  on  a  Missionary  Enterprise. 

B.  B.  Thatcher.  401 
The  Pilgrim  Fathers. Charles  Sprague.  403 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Pa?e. 
Allston,  W.  .  .  233,303,326 
Anonymous.  17,  51,  79,  94,  96,  125, 
158,  161,  168,  185,  191,  196, 
199,  231,  249,  252,  253,  274, 
276,  277,  280,  291,  305,  315, 
328,  329,  359,  365,  373,  389, 
390 

Brainard,  J.  G.  C.  63, 64, 78,  88,  96, 
109,  142,  157,  254,  264,  284, 
308,  344,  370,  376 
Brooks,  Mrs.  J.  G.      ....     51 

Browne,  Mary  Ann 377 

Bryant,  W.  C.  19,  35,  36,  52,  54,  83, 
101,  103,  114,  135,  149,  166, 
173,  239,  244,  256,  265,  282, 
291,  298,  300,  322,  379 

Child,  Mrs 321,356 

Christian  Disciplo.  .     .     .     170, 211 
Christian  Examiner.  70, 71, 139, 159, 
184,  240,  270,  341 

Christian  Mirror 374 

Columbian  Star 89 

Commercial  Advertiser*     .     .    388 
Connecticut  Mirror.  .  .     .     356 

Connecticut  Observer.   ...      90 

Dana,  R.  H.  20,  30,  31,  55,  56,  80, 
80, 100, 102, 130, 145, 147,241, 
247,  298,  302,  318 
Davidson,  Lucretia  M.  25,  125,  134 

Dawes,  R 121,  275 

Doane,  G.  \V.       .     .     .     .  128, 347 


Page. 
Eastburn.  J.  W. 

120,  133,  334,  347,  355 
Episcopal  Watchman.     .     .     .  375 

Everett,  E 225,250 

Everett,  A.  H 314 

Flint,  M 259 

Flint,  M.  P 391 

Frisbie,  L. 286,364 

Gallaudet,  W.  E 289 

Garrison,  W.  L.     .     .     .      57,201 

Gilman,  Mrs 66,  376 

Goodrich,  S.  G 398 

Gould,  Hannah  F 195 

Graham,  S 278 

Greenwood,  W.  P 283 

Hale,  Mrs 218,363 

Halleck,  F.  G.  58,  60,  163,  218,  240, 

296,  323,362 
Hillhouse,  J.  A.  22,  25,  44,  46,  72, 

76,  152,  186,  214,  294,  340 
Huntington,  D.       ...     248,  316 

Idle  Man 246 

Jones 167 

Ladies'  Magazine  (Mrs.  Hale's). 

335,338 

Lewis,  A 115,  383 

Longfellow,  G.  W.  160,  193,  206, 
257,  260,  306,  332 


1G 


INDEX    OF 

Page. 
.      .      .216 


Massachusetts  Spy.     . 
McLellan,  I.  Jr. 

359,  369,  372,  381,  397 

Mellon,  G 86,200 

Monthly  Anthology  ...  284 

National   Gazette    (Walsh's). 

82,251 


Neal,  J 

.  209 

New  York  American. 

.  137 

New  York  Daily  Advertiser 

.  113 

New  York  Evening  Post. 

.  232 

New  York  Review.     .     . 

.  331 

New  York  Statesman.  , . 

.  272 

North  American  Review.     . 

.  307 

Norton,  A.            65,  225,  S 

555,  269 

Ohio  Backwoodsman,      .     . 

.  393 

0.  W.  H 

..  396 

Peabody,  W.  O.  B.  181,  215,  231, 

325,  336,  336,  337,  345,  395 
Percival,  J.  G.  50,  85,  107,  138,  172, 

183,  202,   204,  228,  258,  262, 

267,  267,   294,  351 

Pickering,  H 230,339 

Pierpont,  J.  42,  43,  61, 107, 156,  183, 

198,  211,  293,  301,  343,  357, 

366,  368,  382,  387 

Pinkney,  E.  C 158 

Port  Folio 90,97 


AUTHORS. 

Page. 
Rockingham  Gazette,  .  .  .  288 
Rockwell,  J.  0 197 

Sands,  R.  C 116 

Sigourney,  Mrs.  38,  48,  48, 112,  123, 
127, 163, 175, 292, 309, 348, 386, 
396 

Smith,  Louisa  P 233 

Sprague,  C 162,  403 

Talisman.     ......    77, 95 

Tappan,  W.  B.       ...     123,  269 

Thatcher,  B.  B.      .     .    .    394,401 

Townsend,  Elizabeth.     ...  207 

Unitarian  Miscellany.     .     .     .  327 

Upham,  T.  C 212 

U.  S.  Rev.  &  Lit.  Gazette.  .     .  177 

Ware,  H.  Jr.     .    .     .  143,  220,  353 

Wells,  T 157 

Whittier,  J.  G.  37, 66, 87, 110, 349,384 
Wilcox,  C.  17,  39,  41, 45,  61,  68,  77, 

84,  98,  105,  106,  330,  342,  389 
Willis,  N.  P.  27,  85,  91,  111,  119, 

141, 169, 178,213,224,271,310, 

310 

Woodworth 194 

Woods,  L 400 

Yamoyden, 127,217 


AMERICAN 
COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY. 


A  Sacred  Melody. — Anonymous. 

Be  thou,  O  God !  by  night,  by  day, 
My  Guide,  my  Guard  from  sin, 

My  Life,  my  Trust,  my  Light  Divine, 
To  keep  me  pure  within  ; — 

Pure  as  the  air,  when  day's  first  light 

A  cloudless  sky  illumes, 
And  active  as  the  lark,  that  soars 

Till  heaven  shine  round  its  plumes. 

So  may  my  soul,  upon  the  wings 

Of  faith,  unwearied  rise, 
Till  at  the  gate  of  heaven  it  sings, 

Midst  light  from  paradise. 


Active  Christian  Benevolence  the   Source  of  sublime  and 
lasting  Happiness. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief? 
Or  is  thy  heart  oppressed  with  woes  untold  ? 
Balm  wouldst  thou  gather  for  corroding  grief? 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold. — 
'Tis  when  the  rose  is  wrapt  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty;  not  when,  all  unrolled, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  its  bosom,  rich  and  fair, 
Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the  ambient  air. 
2* 


18  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Wake,  thou  that  sleepest  in  enchanted  bowers, 
Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on  the  night 
When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  numbered  hours 
To  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight ; 
Wake,  ere  the  earth-born  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  addressed ; 
Do  something — do  it  soon — with  all  thy  might; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself,  inactive,  were  no  longer  blest. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 
Contemplate,  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Become  thy  study,  pastime-,  rest,  and  food, 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined. 
Pray  Heaven  for  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose — to  begin,  pursue, 
With  thoughts  all  fixed,  and  feelings  purely  kind ; 
•  Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review, 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due. 

No  good  of  worth  sublime  will  Heaven  permit 
To  light  on  man  as  from  the  passing  air ; 
The  lamp  of  genius,  though  by  nature  lit, 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care, 
Soon  dies,  or  runs  to  waste  with  fitful  glare  ; 
And  learning  is  a  plant  that  spreads  and  towers 
Slow  as  Columbia's  aloe,  proudly  rare, 
That,  'mid  gay  thousands,  with  the  suns  and  showers 
Of  half  a  century,  grows  alone  before  it  flowers. 

Has  immortality  of  name  been  given 
To  them  that  idly  worship  hills  and  groves, 
And  burn  sweet  incense  to  the  queen  of  heaven  ? 
Did  Newton  learn  from  fancy,  as  it  roves, 
To  measure  worlds,  and  follow  where  each  moves  ? 
Did  Howard  gain  renown  that  shall  not  cease, 
By  wanderings  wild  that  nature's  pilgrim  loves  ? 
Or  did  Paul  gain  heaven's  glory  and  its  peace, 
By  musing  o'er  the  bright  and  tranquil  isles  of  Greece  ? 

Beware  lest  thou,  from  sloth,  that  would  appear 

But  lowliness  of  mind,  with  joy  proclaim 

Thy  want  of  worth ;  a  charge  thou  couldst  not  hear 

From  other  lips,  without  a  blush  of  shame, 

Or  pride  indignant ;  then  be  thine  the  blame, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  19 

And  make  thyself  of  worth  ;  and  thus  enlist 
The  smiles  of  all  the  good,  the  dear  to  fame ; 
'Tis  infamy  to  die  and  not  be  missed, 
Or  let  all  soon  forget  that  thou  didst  e'er  exist. 

Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love, 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shalt  know, — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above, 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider  grow  ; 
The  seed  that,  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours, 
Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow, 
Shall  deck  thy  grave  with  amaranthine  flowers, 
And  yield  thee  fruits  divine  in  heaven's  immortal  bowers. 


Inscription  for  the  Entrance  into  a  Wood. — Bryant. 

Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learnt  a  truth,  which  needs 

Experience  more  than  reason,  that  the  world 

Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  known 

Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes  and  cares 

To  tire  thee  of  it, — enter  this  wild  wood, 

And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.     The  calm  shade 

Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze, 

That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.     Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 

Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men, 

And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.     The  primal  curse 

Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 

But  not  in  vengeance.     Misery  is  wed 

To  guilt.     And  hence  these  shades  are  still  the  abodes 

Of  undissembled  gladness  :  the  thick  roof 

Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 

And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 

In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while,  below, 

The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 

Chirps  merrily.     Throngs  of  insects  in  the  glade 

Try  their  thin  wings,  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 

That  waked  them  into  life.     Even  the  green  trees 

Partake  the  deep  contentment :  as  they  bend 

To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 

Looks  in,  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 

Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to  enjoy 


20  COIVTMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 

That  sucks  its  sweets.     The  massy  rocks  themselves, 

The  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees. 

That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll,  a  causey  rude, 

Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 

With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 

Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.     The  rivulet 

Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and,  tripping  o'er  its  bed 

Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 

Seems  with  continuous  laughter  to  rejoice 

In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 

Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 

That  dips  her  bill  in  water.     The  cool  wind, 

That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thee, 

Like  one  that  loves  thee,  nor  will  let  thee  pass 

Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 


The  Death  of  Sin  and  the  Life  of  Holiness. — Dana. 

Be  warned !    Thou  canst  not  break  or  'scape  the  power 
In  kindness  given  in  thy  first  breathing  hour : 
Thou  canst  not  slay  its  life  :  it  must  create  ; 
And,  good  or  ill,  there  ne'er  will  come  a  date 
To  its  tremendous  energies.     The  trust, 
Thus  given,  guard,  and  to  thyself  be  just. 
Nor  dream  with  life  to  shuffle  off  this  coil; 
It  takes  fresh  life,  starts  fresh  for  further  toil, 
And  on  it  goes,  for  ever,  ever  on, 
Changing,  all  down  its  course,  each  thing  to  one 
With  its  immortal  nature.     All  must  be, 
Like  thy  dread  self,  one  dread  eternity. 

Blinded  by  passion,  man  gives  up  his  breath, 
Uncalled  by  God.     We  look,  and  name  it  death. 
Mad  wretch !  the  soul  hath  no  last  sleep  ;  the  strife 
To  end  itself,  but  wakes  intenser  life 
In  the  self-torturing  spirit.     Fool,  give  o'er ! 
Hast  thou  once  been,  yet  think'st  to  be  no  more  ? 
What!  life  destroy  itself?     O,  idlest  dream, 
Shaped  in  that  emptiest  thing — a  doubter's  scheme. 
Think'st  in  a  universal  soul  will  merge 
Thy  soul,  as  rain-drops  mingle  with  the  surge  ? 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  21 

Or,  no  less  skeptic,  sin  will  have  an  end, 

And  thy  purged  spirit  with  the  holy  blend 

In  joys  as  holy  ?     Why  a  sinner  now  ? 

As  falls  the  tree,  so  lies  it.     So  shalt  thou. 

God's  Book,  thou  doubter,  holds  the  plain  record. 

Dar'st  talk  of  hopes  and  doubts  against  that  Word  ? 

Dar'st  palter  with  it  in  a  quibbling  sense  ? 

That  Book  shall  judge  thee  when  thou  passest  hence. 

Then,  with  thy  spirit  from  the  body  freed, 

Thou'lt  know,  thou'lt  see,  thou'lt  feel  what's  life,  indeed. 

Bursting  to  life,  thy  dominant  desire 
Will  upward  flame,  like  a  fierce  forest  fire  ; 
Then,  like  a  sea  of  fire,  heave,  roar,  and  dash — 
Roll  up  its  lowest  depths  in  waves,  and  flash 
A  wild  disaster  round,  like  its  own  wo — 
Each  wave  cry,  "  Wo  for  ever!"  in  its  flow, 
And  then  pass  on — from  far  adown  its  path 
Send  back  commingling  sounds  of  wo  and  wrath — 
Th'  indomitable  Will  then  know  no  sway : — 
God  calls — Man,  hear  Him  ;  quit  that  fearful  way ! 

Come,  listen  to  His  voice  who  died  to  save 
Lost  man,  and  raise  him  from  his  moral  grave ; 
From  darkness  showed  a  path  of  light  to  heaven  ; 
Cried,  "  Rise  and  walk ;  thy  sins  are  all  forgiven." 

Blest  are  the  pure  in  heart.     Wouid'st  thou  be  blest  ? 
He'll  cleanse  thy  spotted  soul.     Wouid'st  thou  find  rest  ? 
Around  thy  toils  and  cares  he'll  breathe  a  calm, 
And  to  thy  wounded  spirit  lay  a  balm, 
From  fear  draw  love,  and  teach  thee  where  to  seek 
Lost  strength  and  grandeur,  with  the  bowed  and  meek. 

Come  lowly  ;  He  will  help  thee.     Lay  aside 
That  subtle,  first  of  evils — human  pride. 
Know  God,  and,  so,  thyself;  and  be  afraid 
To  call  aught  poor  or  low  that  he  has  made. 
Fear  naught  but  sin  ;  love  all  but  sin  ;  and  learn 
How  that,  in  all  things  else,  thou  may'st  discern 
His  forming,  his  creating  power — how  bind 
Earth,  self  and  brother  to  th'  Eternal  Mind. 

Linked  with  th'  Immortal,  immortality 
Begins  e'en  here.     For  what  is  time  to  thee, 


22  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

To  whose  cleared  sight  the  night  is  turned  to  day, 
And  that  but  changing  life,  miscalled  decay  ? 

Is  it  not  glorious,  then,  from  thy  own  heart 
To  pour  a  stream  of  life  ? — to  make  a  part 
With  thy  eternal  spirit  things  that  rot, — 
That,  looked  on  for  a  moment,  are  forgot, 
But  to  thy  opening  vision  pass  to  take 
New  forms  of  life,  and  in  new  beauties  wake  ? 

To  thee  the  falling  leaf  but  fades  to  bear 
Its  hues  and  odors  to  some  fresher  air ; 
Some  passing  sound  floats  by  to  yonder  sphere, 
That  softly  answers  to  thy  listening  ear. 
In  one  eternal  round  they  go  and  come  ; 
And  where  they  travel,  there  hast  thou  a  home 
For  thy  far-reaching  thoughts. — 0,  Power  Divine, 
Has  this  poor  worm  a  spirit  so  like  thine  ? 
Unwrap  its  folds,  and  clear  its  wings  to  go ! 
Would  I  could  quit  earth,  sin,  and  care,  and  wo ! 
Nay,  rather  let  me  use  the  world  aright : 
Thus  make  me  ready  for  my  upward  flight. 


A  Demon's  false  Description  of  his  Race  of  fallen  Intelli- 
gences.    A  Scene  from  Hadad. — Hillhouse. 

Tamar.     I  shudder, 
Lest  some  dark  Minister  be  near  us  now. 

Hadad.     You  wrong  them.    They  are  bright  Intelligences, 
Robbed  of  some  native  splendor,  and  cast  down, 
'Tis  true,  from  heaven  ;  but  not  deformed,  and  foul, 
Revengeful,  malice- working  fiends,  as  fools 
Suppose.     They  dwell,  like  princes,  in  the  clouds ; 
Sun  their  bright  pinions  in  the  middle  sky  ; 
Or  arch  their  palaces  beneath  the  hills, 
With  stones  inestimable  studded  so, 
That  sun  or  stars  were  useless  there. 

Tarn.     Good  heavens ! 

Had.     He  bade  me  look  on  rugged  Caucasus, 
Crag  piled  on  crag  beyond  the  utmost  ken, 
Naked,  and  wild,  as  if  creation's  ruins 
Were  neaped  in  one  immeasurable  chain 
Of  barren  mountains,  beaten  by  the  storms 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  23 

Of  everlasting  winter.     But  within 

Are  glorious  palaces,  and  domes  of  light, 

Irradiate  halls,  and  crystal  colonnades. 

Vaults  set  with  gems,  the  purchase  of  a  crown, 

Blazing  with  lustre  past  the  noon-tide  beam, 

Or,  with  a  milder  beauty,  mimicking 

The  mystic  signs  of  changeful  Mazzaroth. 

Tarn.     Unheard  of  splendor  ! 

Had.     There  they  dwell,  and  muse, 
And  wander ;  Beings  beautiful,  immortal, 
Minds  vast  as  heaven,  capacious  as  the  sky, 
Whose  thoughts  connect  past,  present,  and  to  come, 
And  glow  with  light  intense,  imperishable. 
Thus,  in  the  sparry  chambers  of  the  sea 
And  air-pavilions,  rainbow  tabernacles, 
They  study  Nature's  secrets,  and  enjoy 
No  poor  dominion. 

Tarn.     Are  they  beautiful, 
And  powerful  far  beyond  the  human  race  ? 

Had.     Man's  feeble  heart  cannot  conceive  it.     When 
The  sage  described  them,  fiery  eloquence 
Flowed  from  his  lips,  his  bosom  heaved,  his  eyes 
Grew  bright  and  mystical ;  moved  by  the  theme, 
Like  one  who  feels  a  deity  within. 

Tarn.    Wondrous ! — What  intercourse  have  they  with  men  ? 

Had.     Sometimes  they  deign  to  intermix  with  man, 
But  oft  with  woman. 

Tarn.     Hah  !  with  woman  ? 

Had.     She 
Attracts  them  with  her  gentler  virtues,  soft, 
And  beautiful,  and  heavenly,  like  themselves. 
They  have  been  known  to  love  her  with  a  passion 
Stronger  than  human. 

Tarn.     That  surpasses  ajl 
You  yet  have  told  me. 

Had.     This  the  sage  affirms; 
And  Moses,  darkly. 

Tarn.     How  do  they  appear  ? 
How  manifest  their  love  ? 

Had.     Sometimes  'tis  spiritual,  signified 
By  beatific  dreams,  or  more  distinct 
And  glorious  apparition. — They  have  stooped 
To  animate  a  human  form,  and  love 
Like  mortals. 

Tarn.     Frightful  to  be  so  beloved  ! 


24  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Who  could  endure  the  horrid  thought! — What  makes 
Thy  cold  hand  tremble  ?  or  is't  mine 
That  feels  so  deathy  ? 

Had.     Dark  imaginations  haunt  me 
When  I  recall  the  dreadful  interview. 

Tarn.     0,  tell  them  not — I  would  not  hear  them. 

Had.     But  why  contemn  a  Spirit's  love  ?  so  high, 
So  glorious,  if  he  haply  deigned  ? — 

Tarn.     Forswear 
My  Maker !  love  a  Demon ! 

Had.     No — 0,  no — 
My  thoughts  but  wandered — Oft,  alas !   they  wander. 

Tarn.     Why  dost  thou  speak  so  sadly  now  ? — and  lo ! 
Thine  eyes  are  fixed  again  upon  Arcturus. 
Thus  ever,  when  thy  drooping-  spirits  ebb, 
Thou  gazest  on  that  star.     Hath  it  the  power 

To  cause  or  cure  thy  melancholy  mood  ? 

[He  appears  lost  in  thought.] 
Tell  me,  ascrib'st  thou  influence  to  the  stars  ? 

Had.     (starting.)     The  stars  !     What  know'st  thou  of  the 
stars  ? 

Tarn.     I  know  that  they  were  made  to  rule  the  night. 

Had.     Like  palace  lamps !  thou  echoest  well  thy  grandsire. 
Woman !  the  stars  are  living,  glorious, 
Amazing,  infinite  ! 

Tam.     Speak  not  so  wildly. — 
I  know  them  numberless,  resplendent,  set 
As  symbols  of  the  countless,  countless  years 
That  make  eternity. 

Had.     Eternity  !— 
Oh  !  mighty,  glorious,  miserable  thought ! — 
Had  ye  endured  like  those  great  sufferers, 
Like  them,  seen  ages,  myriad  ages  roll ; 
Could  ye  but  look  into  the  void  abyss 
With  eyes  experienced,  unobscured  by  torments, — 
Then  mightst  thou  name  it,  name  it  feelingly. 

Tam.     What  ails  thee,  Hadad  ? — Draw  me  not  so  close. 

Had.     Tamar !  I  need  thy  love — more  than  thy  love — 

Tam.     Thy  cheek  is  wet  with  tears — Nay,  let  us  part — 
'Tis  late — I  cannot,  must  not  linger. — 

[Breaks  from  him,  and  exit.'] 

Had.     Loved  and  abhorred ! — Still,  still  accursed ! — 

[He  paces,  twice  or  thrice,  up  and  down,  with 
passionate  gestures  ;  then  turns  his  face  to 
the  sky,  and  stands  a  moment  in  silence.] 


I 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  25 

— Oh !  where, 
In  the  illimitable  space,  in  what 
Profound  of  untried  misery,  when  all 
His  worlds,  his  rolling  orbs  of  light,  that  fill 
With  life  and  beauty  yonder  infinite, 
Their  radiant  journey  run,  for  ever  set, 
Where,  where,  in  what  abyss  shall  I  be  groaning  ? 

[Exit.] 

Hadad's  Description  of  the  City  of  David. — Hillhouse. 

'Tis  so; — the  hoary  harper  sings  aright; 
How  beautiful  is  Zion  ! — Like  a  queen, 
Armed  with  a  helm  in  virgin  loveliness, 
Her  heaving  bosom  in  a  bossy  cuirass, 
She  sits  aloft,  begirt  with  battlements 
And  bulwarks  swelling  from  the  rock,  to  guard 
The  sacred  courts,  pavilions,  palaces, 
Soft  gleaming  through  the  umbrage  of  the  woods 
Which  tuft  her  summit,  and,  like  raven  tresses, 
Wave  their  dark  beauty  round  the  tower  of  David. 
Resplendent  with  a  thousand  golden  bucklers, 
The  embrazures  of  alabaster  shine  ; 
Hailed  by  the  pilgrims  of  the  desert,  bound 
To  Judah's  mart  with  orient  merchandise. 
But  not,  for  thou  art  fair  and  turret- crowned, 
Wet  with  the  choicest  dew  of  heaven,  and  blessed 
With  golden  fruits,  and  gales  of  frankincense, 
Dwell  I  beneath  thine  ample  curtains.     Here, 
Where  saints  and  prophets  teach,  where  the  stern  law 
Still  speaks  in  thunder,  where  chief  angels  watch, 
And  where  the  Glory  hovers,  here  I  war. 


The  Song  at  Twilight. — Lucretia  Maria  Davidson.* 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven  ; 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound, 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given ; 

*The  remains  and  a  biographical  sketch  of  this  remarkable  girl  were 
published  last  year  by  Mr.  Samuel  F.  B.  Morse.     An  interesting  review 
of  the  volume  appeared  soon  after  in  the  London  Quarterly  :  we  are  not 
3 


2fi  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye  ; 

When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie  ; — 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give, 

0,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And,  hovering,  trembles  half  afraid, 

O,  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 

Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 

'Twere  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 

Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day; 
Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing, 

And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When,  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Shouldst  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  1  love  ? 

aware  that  it  has  been  noticed  in  any  periodical  in  this  country.  Southey 
has  rendered  himself  distinguished  for  his  attention  to  youthful  genius. 
Except  the  cases  of  Chatterton  and  Henry  Kirke  White,  he  thinks  there  is 
no  instance  on  record  of"  so  early,  so  ardent,  and  so  fatal  a  pursuit  of 
intellectual  advancement,"  as  is  exhibited  in  the  history  of  this  young 
lady.  "  In  these  poems,  there  is  enough  of  originality,  enough  of  aspira- 
tion, enough  of  conscious  energy,  enough  of  growing  power,  to  warrant 
any  expectations,  however  sanguine,  which  the  patron,  and  the  friends 
and  parents  of  the  deceased,  could  have  formed  ;  nor  can  any  person  rise 
from  the  perusal  of  such  a  volume  without  feeling  the  vanity  of  human 
hopes." 

"  She  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  music.  There  was  one  song  (it  was 
Moore's  Farewell  to  his  Harp)  to  which  she  took  a  special  fancy  ;  she 
wished  to  hear  it  only  at  twilight ;  thus,  with  that  same  perilous  love  of 
excitement  which  made  her  place  the  windharp  in  the  window  when  she 
was  composing,  seeking  to  increase  the  effect  which  the  song  produced 
upon  a  nervous  system,  already  diseasedly  susceptible  ;  for  it  is  said, 
that,  whenever  she  heard  this  song,  she  became  cold,  pale,  and  almost 
fainting ;  yet  it  was  her  favorite  of  all  songs,  and  gave  occasion  to  these 
verses,  addressed,  in  her  fifteenth  year,  to  her  sister. 

"  To  young  readers  it  might  be  useful  to  observe,  that  these  verses,  in 
one  place,  approach  the  verge  of  meaning,  but  are  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
line  :  to  none  can  it  be  necessary  to  say,  that  they  breathe  the  deep  feel- 
ing of  a  mind  essentially  poetical."  The  piece  here  referred  to,  is  that 
extracted  above.    Ed. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  27 


Hagarin  the  Wilderness. — N.  P.  Willis. 

The  morning  broke.     Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 
With  a  strange  beauty.     Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dies  ;  and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
And  every  thing  that  bendeth  to  the  dew, 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow ;  and  the  light, 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  Hagar.     The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odors  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  caroling  as  life 
Were  a  new  thing  to  them ;  but,  oh  !  it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  Abraham's  tent.     Her  lips  were  pressed 
Till  the  blood  left  them  ;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swelled  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.     Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 
Clasped  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  trained  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor, 
Sandaled  for  journeying.     He  had  looked  up 
Into  his  mother's  face  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  snowy  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straightened  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swelled, 
Had  they  but  matched  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily  ?     His  beard 
Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  his  high  brow, 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  God, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigor  is  not  there  ;  and,  though  the  morn 


28 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 
Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 
Oh  !  man  may  bear  with  suffering :  his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality  ;  but  tear 
One  cord  affection  clings  to,  part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love, 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand, 
In  silent  blessing,  on  the  fair-haired  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 

Should  Hagar  weep  ?     May  slighted  woman  turn, 
And,  as  a  vine  Jhe  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  tendencies  again  ? 
O  no !  by  all  her  loveliness,  by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no ! 
Make  her  a  slave ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness — yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 
But,  oh !  estrange  her  once,  it  boots  not  how,     . 
By  wrong  or  silence,  any  thing  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness, — 
And  there  is  not  a  high  thing  out  of  heaven 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not. 

She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow ; 
Her  pressed  lip  arched,  and  her  clear  eye  undimmed, 
As  it  had  been  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  pressed 
His  hand  till  it  was  pained ;  for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

The  morning  past,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  29 

And  the  bright,  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay- 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
It  was  an  hour  of  rest ;  but  Hagar  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Hung  down  his  head,  and  opened  his  parched  lips 
For  water ;  but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 
She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky, — 
For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 
Of  the  thick  pines, — and  tried  to  comfort  him  ; 
But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 
Were  dim  and  bloodshot,  and  he  could  not  know 
Why  God  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 
She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 
Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 
It  was  too  much  for  her.     She  lifted  him, 
And  bore  him  farther  on,  and  laid  his  head 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub  ; 
And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 
And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 
Till  he  should  die  ;  and,  watching  him,  she  mourned : — 

*  God  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy ; 
I  cannot  see  thee  die  ;  I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye ! 

And  could  I  see  thee  die  ? 

*  I  did  not  dream  of  this  when  thou  wast  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers; 

Or  wearing  rosy  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

1  Oh  no !  and  when  I  watched  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  deep  Nile, 
How  prayed  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee ! 


30  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

'  And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won  thee, 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press ; 

And  oh  !  my  last  caress 
Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillowed  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair  V 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  God  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laughed 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisped 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


Return  of  the  Buccaneer. — Richard  H.  Dana. 

Within  our  bay,  one  stormy  night, 

The  isle's  men  saw  boats  make  for  shore, 

With  here  and  there  a  dancing  light 

That  flashed  on  man  and  oar. 
When  hailed,  the  rowing  stopt,  and  all  was  dark. 
"  Ha !    lantern    work  ! — We'll    home  !    They're    playing 
shark!" 

Next  day,  at  noon,  towards  the  town, 

All  stared  and  wondered  much  to  see 

Matt  and  his  men  come  strolling  down. 

The  boys  shout,  "  Here  comes  Lee  !" 
"  Thy  ship,  good  Lee  ?"     "  Not  many  leagues  from  shore 
Our  ship  by  chance  took  fire." — They  learnt  no  more. 

He  and  his  crew  were  flush  of  gold. 

"  You  did  not  lose  your  cargo,  then  ?" 

"  Learn  where  all's  fairly  bought  and  sold." 

Heaven  prospers  those  true  men. 
Forsake  your  evil  ways,  as  we  forsook 
Our  ways  of  sin,  and  honest  courses  took ! 

"  Wouldst  see  my  log-book  ?     Fairly  writ, 
With  pen  of  steel,  and  ink  like  blood ! 
How  lightly  doth  the  conscience  sit ! 
Learn,  truth's  the  only  good." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  31 

And  thus,  with  flout,  and  cold  and  impious  jeer, 
He  fled  repentance,  if  he  'scaped  not  fear. 

Remorse  and  fear  he  drowns  in  drink. 

"  Come,  pass  the  bowl,  my  jolly  crew 

It  thicks  the  blood  to  mope  and  think. 

Here's  merry  days,  though  few  !" 
And  then  he  quaffs. — So  riot  reigns  within ; 
So  brawl  and  laughter  shake  that  house  of  sin. 

Matt  lords  it  now  throughout  the  isle. 

His  hand  falls  heavier  than  before. 

All  dread  alike  his  frown  or  smile. 

None  come  within  his  door, 
Save  those  who  dipped  their  hands  in  blood  with  him  ; 
Save  those  who  laughed  to  see  the  white  horse  swim. 


Appearance  of  the  Spectre  Horse  and  the  Burning  Ship  to 
the  Buccaneer. — Ibid. 

"  To-night's  our  anniversary ; 

And,  mind  me,  lads,  we'll  have  it  kept 

With  royal  state  and  special  glee ! 

Better  with  those  who  slept 
Their  sleep  that  night,  had  he  be  now,  who  slinks ! 
And  health  and  wealth  to  him  who  bravely  drinks !" 

The  words  they  spoke  we  may  not  speak. 

The  tales  they  told  we  may  not  tell. 

Mere  mortal  man,  forbear  to  seek 

The  secrets  of  that  hell  ! 
Their  shouts  grow  loud.     'Tis  near  mid-hour  of  night. 
What  means  upon  the  waters  that  red  light  ? 

Not  bigger  than  a  star  it  seems ; 

And,  now,  'tis  like  the  bloody  moon ; 

And,  now,  it  shoots  in  hairy  streams 

Its  light! — 'Twill  reach  us  soon  ! 
A  ship  !  and  all  on  fire  ! — hull,  yards  and  mast ! 
Her  sheets  are  sheets  of  flame ! — She's  nearing  fast ! 

And  now  she  rides,  upright  and  still, 
Shedding  a  wild  and  lurid  light 


32  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Around  the  cove  on  inland  hill, 

Waking  the  gloom  of  night. 
All  breathes  of  terror  !     Men  in  dumb  amaze 
Gaze  on  each  other  'neath  the  horrid  blaze. 

It  scares  the  sea-birds  from  their  nests. 

They  dart  and  wheel  with  deafning  screams ; 

Now  dark, — and  now  their  wings  and  breasts 

Flash  back  disastrous  gleams. 
O,  sin,  what  hast  thou  done  on  this  fair  earth  ? 
The  world,  0  man,  is  wailing  o'er  thy  birth. 

And  what  comes  up  above  that  wave, 
So  ghastly  white  ? — A  spectral  head  ! — 
A  horse's  head — (May  heaven  save 
Those  looking  on  the  dead, — 
The  waking  dead !)     There  on  the  sea  he  stands — 
The  spectre-horse  ! — he  moves  ;  he  gains  the  sands  ! 

Onward  he  speeds.     His  ghostly  sides 

Are  streaming  with  a  cold,  blue  light. 

Heaven  keep  the  wits  of  him  who  rides 

The  spectre-horse  to-night ! 
His  path  is  shining  like  a  swift  ship's  wake ; 
He  gleams  before  Lee's  door  like  day's  gray  break. 

The  revel  now  is  high  within : 

It  breaks  upon  the  midnight  air. 

They  little  think,  midst  mirth  and  din, 

What  spirit  waits  them  there. 
As  if  the  sky  became  a  voice,  there  spread 
A  sound  to  appal  the  living,  stir  the  dead. 

The  spirit-steed  sent  up  the  neigh. 

It  seemed  the  living  trump  of  hell, 

Sounding  to  call  the  damned  away, 

To  join  the  host  that  fell. 
It  rang  along  the  vaulted  sky :  the  shore 
Jarred  hard,  as  when  the  thronging  surges  roar. 

It  rang  in  ears  that  knew  the  sound ; 
And  hot,  flushed  cheeks  are  blanched  with  fear 
And  why  does  Lee  look  wildly  round  ? 
Thinks  he  the  drowned  horse  near  ? 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  33 

He  drops  his  cup ;  his  lips  are  stiff  with  fright. 
Nay,  sit  thee  down  ! — It  is  thy  banquet  night. 

(e  I  cannot  sit.     I  needs  must  go  : 

The  spell  is  on  my  spirit  now. 

I  go  to  dread  !   I  go  to  wo  !" 

O,  who  so  weak  as  thou, 
Strong  man  ? — His  hoofs  upon  the  door-stone,  see, 
The  shadow  stands  ? — His  eyes  are  on  thee,  Lee  ! — 

Thy  hair  pricks  up  ! — "  0,  I  must  bear 

His  damp,  cold  breath  !     It  chills  my  frame  ! 

His  eyes — their  near  and  dreadful  glare 

Speak  that  I  must  not  name  !" 
Thou'rt  mad  to  mount  that  horse  ! — "  A  power  within, 
I  must  obey,  cries,  '  Mount  thee,  man  of  sin !'  " 

He's  now  astride  the  spectre's  back, 

With  rein  of  silk,  and  curb  of  gold. 

'Tis  fearful  speed  ! — the  rein  is  slack 

Within  his  senseless  hold  : 
Nor  doth  he  touch  the  shade  he  strides,  upborne 
By  an  unseen  power. — God  help  thee,  man  forlorn ! 

He  goes  with  speed ;  he  goes  with  dread  ! 

And  now  they're  on  the  hanging  steep ! 

And,  now,  the  living  and  the  dead, 

They'll  make  the  horrid  leap ! 
The  horse  stops  short: — his  feet  are  on  the  verge. 
He  stands,  like  marble,  high  above  the  surge. 

And,  nigh,  the  tall  ship  yet  burns  on, 

With  red,  hot  spars  and  crackling  flame. 

From  hull  to  gallant,  nothing's  gone. 

She  burns,  and  yet's  the  same  ! 
Her  hot,  red  flame  is  beating,  all  the  night, 
On  man  and  horse,  in  their  cold,  phosphor  light. 

Through  that  cold  light  the  fearful  man 

Sits  looking  on  the  burning  ship. 

Thou  ne'er  again  wilt  curse  and  ban. 

How  fast  he  moves  the  lip  ! 
And  yet  he  does  not  speak,  or  make  a  sound ! 
What  see  you,  Lee, — the  bodies  of  the  drowned  ? 


34  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

"  I  look — where  mortal  man  may  not — 

Into  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 

I  see  the  dead,  long,  long  forgot; 

I  see  them  in  their  sleep. 
A  dreadful  power  is  mine,  which  none  can  know, 
Save  he  who  leagues  his  soul  with  death  and  wo." 

Thou  mild,  sad  mother,  waning  moon 

Thy  last,  low,  melancholy  ray 

Shines  towards  him. — Quit  him  not  so  soon! 

Mother,  in  mercy,  stay  ! 
Despair  and  death  are  with  him ;  and  canst  thou, 
With  that  kind,  earthward  look,  go  leave  him  now  ? 

O,  thou  wast  born  for  things  of  love  ; 

Making  more  lovely  in  thy  shine 

Whate'er  thou  look'st  on.     Hosts  above, 

In  that  soft 'light  of  thine, 
Burn  softer  : — earth,  in  silvery  veil,  seems  heaven. — 
Thou'rt  going  down ! — Thou'st  left  him  unforgiven ! 

The  far,  low  west  is  bright  no  more. 

How  still  it  is  !     No  sound  is  heard 

At  sea,  or  all  along  the  shore, 

But  cry  of  passing  bird. 
Thou  living  thing,  and  dar'st  thou  come  so  near 
These  wild  and  ghastly  shapes  of  death  and  fear  ? 

Now  long  that  thick,  red  light  has  shone 
On  stern,  dark  rocks,  and  deep,  still  bay, 
On  man  and  horse  that  seem  of  stone, 
So  motionless  are  they. 
But  now  its  lurid  fire  less  fiercely  burns : 
The  night  is  going — faint,  gray  dawn  returns. 

The  spectre-steed  now  slowly  pales ; 

Now  changes  like  the  moonlit  cloud. 

That  cold,  thin  light,  now  slowly  fails, 

Which  wrapt  them  like  a  shroud. 
Both  ship  and  horse  are  fading  into  air. 
Lost,  mazed,  alone,  see,  Lee  is  standing  there ! 

The  morning  air  blows  fresh  on  him ; 
The  waves  dance  gladly  in  his  sight ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  35 

The  sea-birds  call,  and  wheel,  and  skim — 

O,  blessed  morning  light ! 
He  doth  not  hear  that  joyous  call  ;  he  sees 
No  beauty  in  the  wave  ;  he  feels  no  breeze. 

For  he's  accurst  from  all  that's  good ; 

He  ne'er  must  know  its  healing  power. 

The  sinner  on  his  sins  must  brood  ; 

Must  wait,  alone,  his  hour. 
Thou  stranger  to  earth's  beauty — human  love — 
There's  here  no  rest  for  thee,  no  hope  above  I 


The  Death  of  the  Flowers. — Bryant. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and 

sere. 
Heap'd  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  wither'd  leaves  lie  dead ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrub  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow,  through  all  the  gloomy 

day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately 

sprung  and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas!  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie  ;  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth,  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perish'd  long  ago, 
And  the  wild-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow  ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the -brook  in  autumn  beauty 

stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague 

on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  upland,  glade 

and  glen. 

And  now,  when  come3  the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still  such  days 

will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home, 


36  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees 

are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late 

he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side  : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when  the  forest  cast  the 

leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief; 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was,  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


The  Skies. — Bryant. 

Ay,  gloriously  thou  standest  there, 
Beautiful,  boundless  firmament ! 

That,  swelling  wide  o'er  earth  and  air, 
And  round  the  horizon  bent, 

With  that  bright  vault  and  sapphire  wall, 

Dost  overhang  and  circle  all. 

Far,  far  below  thee,  tall  gray  trees 

Arise,  and  piles  built  up  of  old, 
And  hills,  whose  ancient  summits  freeze 

In  the  fierce  light  and  cold. 
The  eagle  soars  his  utmost  height ; 
Yet  far  thou  stretchest  o'er  his  flight. 

Thou  hast  thy  frowns  :  with  thee,  on  high, 
The  storm  has  made  his  airy  seat : 

Beyond  thy  soft  blue  curtain  lie 
His  stores  of  hail  and  sleet : 

Thence  the  consuming  lightnings  break ; 

There  the  strong  hurricanes  awake. 

Yet  art  thou  prodigal  of  smiles — 

Smiles  sweeter  than  thy  frowns  are  stern  : 
Earth  sends,  from  all  her  thousand  isles, 

A  song  at  their  return ; 
The  glory  that  comes  down  from  thee 
Bathes  in  deep  joy  the  land  and  sea. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    TOETRY.  37 

The  sun,  the  gorgeous  sun,  is  thine, 

The  pomp  that  brings  and  shuts  the  day, 

The  clouds  that  round  him  change  and  shine, 
The  airs  that  fan  his  way. 

Thence  look  the  thoughtful  stars,  and  there 

The  meek  moon  walks  the  silent  air. 

The  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 

May  thy  blue  pillars  rise  :— 
I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand 
About  my  own  beloved  land. 

And  they  are  fair :  a  charm  is  theirs, 

That  earth — the  proud,  green  earth — has  not, 

With  all  the  hues,  and  forms,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  thy  calm,  pure  sphere, 

And  read  of  heaven's  eternal  year. 

Oh  !  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men, 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth, 

How  willingly  we  turn  us,  then, 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest ! 


From  "  The  Minstrel  Girl." — James  G.  Whittier. 

Her  lover  died.     Away  from  her, 

The  ocean-girls  his  requiem  sang, 
And  smoothed  his  dreamless  sepulchre 

Where  the  tall  coral  branches  sprang. 
And  it  Was  told  her  how  he  strove 

With  death  ;  but  not  from  selfish  fear : 
It  was  the  memory  of  her  love 

Which  made  existence  doubly  dear. 
They  told  her  how  his  fevered  sleep 

Revealed  the  phantom  of  his  brain — 
He  thought  his  love  had  come  to  keep 

Her  vigils  at  his  couch  of  pain  ; 
4 


38  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  he  would  speak  in  his  soft  tone, 

And  stretch  his  arms  to  clasp  the  air, 
And  then  awaken  with  a  moan, 

And  weep  that  there  was  nothing  there  I 
And  when  he  bowed  himself  at  last 

Beneath  the  spoiler's  cold  eclipse, 
Even  as  the  weary  spirit  passed, 

Her  name  was  on  his  marble  lips. 
She  heard  the  tale  ;  she  did  not  weep ; 

It  was  too  strangely  sad  for  tears ; 
And  so  she  kept  it  for  the  deep 

Rememberings  of  after  years. 
She  poured  one  lone  and  plaintive  wail 

For  the  loved  dead — it  was  her  last — 
Like  harp-tones  dying,  on  the  gale 

Her  minstrelsy  of  spirit  passed  : 
And  she  became  an  altered  one, 

Forgetful  of  her  olden  shrine, 
As  if  her  darkened  soul  had  done 

With  all  beneath  the  fair  sunshine. 


1  Weep  for  Yourselves,  and  for  your  Children."- 
Mrs.  Sigour.\ey. 

We  mourn  for  those  who  toil, 

The  slave  who  ploughs  the  main, 
Or  him  who  hopeless  tills  the  soil 

Beneath  the  stripe  and  chain  ; 
For  those  who  in  the  world's  hard  race 

O'erwearied  and  unblest, 
A  host  of  restless  phantoms  chase, — 

Why  mourn  for  those  who  rest? 

We  mourn  for  those  who  sin, 

Bound  in  the  tempter's  snare, 
Whom  syren  pleasure  beckons  in 

To  prisons  of  despair, 
Whose  hearts,  by  whirlwind  passions  torn, 

Are  wrecked  on  folly's  shore, — 
But  why  in  sorrow  should  we  mourn 

For  those  who  sin  no  morel 

We  mourn  for  those  who  weep, 
Whom  stern  afflictions  bend 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  39 

With  anguish  o'er  the  lowly  sleep 

Of  lover  or  of  friend ; — 
But  they  to  whom  the  sway 

Of  pain  and  grief  is  o'er, 
Whose  tears  our  God  hath  wiped  away, 

Oh,  mourn  for  them  no  more  ! 


The  sudden  Coming  on  of  Spring  after  long  Rains, — 
Carlos  Wilcox. 

The  spring,  made  dreary  hy  incessant  rain, 
Was  well  nigh  gone,  and  not  a  glimpse  appeared 
Of  vernal  loveliness,  but  light-green  turf 
Round  the  deep  bubbling  fountain  in  the  vale, 
Or  by  the  rivulet  on  the  hill-side,  near 
Its  cultivated  base,  fronting  the  south, 
Where,  in  the  first  warm  rajs  of  March,  it  sprung 
Amid  dissolving  snow  : — save  these  mere  specks 
Of  earliest  verdure,  with  a  few  pale  flowers, 
In  other  years  bright  blowing  soon  as  earth 
Unveils  her  face,  and  a  faint  vermil  tinge 
On  clumps  of  maple  of  the  softer  kind, 
Was  nothing  visible  to  give  to  May, 
Though  far  advanced,  an  aspect  more  like  her's 
Than  like  November's  universal  gloom. 
All  day,  beneath  the  sheltering  hovel,  stood 
The  drooping  herd,  or  lingered  near  to  ask 
The  food  of  winter.     A  few  lonely  birds, 
Of  those  that  in  this  northern  clime  remain 
Throughout  the  year,  and  in  the  dawn  of  spring, 
At  pleasant  noon,  from  their  unknown  retreat, 
Come  suddenly  to  view  with  lively  notes, 
Or  those  that  soonest  to  this  clime  return 
From  warmer  regions,  in  thick  groves  were  seen, 
But  with  their  feathers  ruffled,  and  despoiled 
Of  all  their  glossy  lustre,  sitting  mute, 
Or  only  skipping,  with  a  single  chirp, 
In  quest  of  food.     Whene'er  the  heavy  clouds, 
That  half  way  down  the  mountain  side  oft  hung, 
As  if  o'erloaded  with  their  watery  store, 
Were  parted,  though  with  motion  unobserved, 
Through  their  dark  opening,  white  with  snow  appeared 
Its  lowest,  e'en  its  cultivated,  peaks. 


40  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

With  sinking  heart  the  husbandman  surveyed 

The  melancholy  scene,  and  much  his  fears 

On  famine  dwelt;   when,  suddenly  awaked 

At  the  first  glimpse  of  daylight,  by  the  sound, 

Long  time  unheard,  of  cheerful  martins,  near 

His  window,  round  their  dwelling  chirping  quick, 

"With  spirits  by  hope  enlivened,  up  he  sprung 

To  look  abroad,  and  to  his  joy  beheld 

A  sky  without  the  remnant  of  a  cloud. 

From  gloom  to  gayety  and  beauty  bright 

So  rapid  now  the  universal  change, 

The  rude  survey  it  with  delight  refined, 

And  e'en  the  thoughtless  talk  of  thanks  devout. 

Long  swoln  in  drenching  rain,  seeds,  germs,  and  buds, 

Start  at  the  touch  of  vivifying  beams. 

Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  lymph 

Diffusive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  field 

A  flood  of  verdure.     Clothed,  in  one  short  week, 

Is  naked  nature  in  her  full  attire. 

On  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 

Is  all  the  woodland,  filled  with  sunbeams,  poured 

Through  the  bare  tops,  on  yellow  leaves  below, 

With  strong  reflection :  on  the  lasi,  'tis  dark 

With  full-grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 

In  one  short  week,  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms ; 

And  now,  when  steeped  in  dew  or  gentle  showers, 

It  yields  the  purest  sweetness  to  the  breeze, 

Or  all  the  tranquil  atmosphere  perfumes. 

E'en  from  the  juicy  leaves,  of  sudden  growth, 

And  the  rank  grass  of  steaming  ground,  the  air, 

Filled  with  a  watery  glimmering,  receives 

A  grateful  smell,  exhaled  by  warming  rays. 

Each  day  are  heard,  and  almost  every  hour, 

New  notes  to  swell  the  music  of  the  groves. 

And  soon  the  latest  of  the  feathered  train 

At  evening  twilight  come  ; — the  lonely  snipe, 

O'er  marshy  fields,  high  in  the  dusky  air, 

Invisible,  but,  with  faint,  tremulous  tones, 

Hovering  or  playing  o'er  the  listener's  head  ; — 

And,  in  mid-air,  the  sportive  night-hawk,  seen 

Flying  awhile  at  random,  uttering  oft 

A  cheerful  cry,  attended  with  a  shake 

Of  level  pinions,  dark,  but,  when  upturned, 

Against  the  brightness  of  the  western  sky, 

One  white  plume  showing  in  the  midst  of  each. 


COMMON-PLAGE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  41 

Then  far  down  diving  with  loud  hollow  sound ; — 

And,  deep  at  first  within  the  distant  wood, 

The  whip-poor-will,  her  name  her  only  song. 

She,  soon  as  children  from  the  noisy  sport 

Of  hooping,  laughing,  talking  with  all  tones, 

To  hear  the  echoes  of  the  empty  barn, 

Are  by  her  voice  diverted,  and  held  mute, 

Comes  to  the  margin  of  the  nearest  grove  ; 

And  when  the  twilight,  deepened  into  night, 

Calls  them  within,  close  to  the  house  she  comes, 

And  on  its  dark  side,  haply  on  the  step 

Of  unfrequented  door,  lighting  unseen, 

Breaks  into  strains  articulate  and  clear, 

The  closing  sometimes  quickened  as  in  sport. 

Now,  animate  throughout,  from  morn  to  eve 

All  harmony,  activity,  and  joy, 

Is  lovely  Nature,  as  in  her  blest  prime. 

The  robin  to  the  garden,  or  green  yard, 

Close  to  the  door  repairs  to  build  again 

Within  her  wonted  tree  ;  and  at  her  work 

Seems  doubly  busy,  for  her  past  delay. 

Along  the  surface  of  the  winding  stream, 

Pursuing  every  turn,  gay  swallows  skim ; 

Or  round  the  borders  of  the  spacious  lawn 

Fly  in  repeated  circles,  rising  o'er 

Hillock  and  fence,  with  motion  serpentine, 

Easy  and  light.     One  snatches  from  the  ground 

A  downy  feather,  and  then  upward  springs, 

Followed  by  others,  but  oft  drops  it  soon, 

In  playful  mood,  or  from  too  slight  a  hold, 

When  all  at  once  dart  at  the  falling  prize. 

The  flippant  blackbird,  with  light  yellow  crown, 

Hangs  fluttering  in  the  air,  and  chatters  thick 

Till  her  breath  fail,  when,  breaking  off,  she  drops 

On  the  next  tree,  and  on  its  highest  limb, 

Or  some  tall  flag,  and,  gently  rocking,  sits, 

Her  strain  repeating. 


Slavery. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

All  are  born  free,  and  all  with  equal  rights. 
So  speaks  the  charter  of  a  nation  proud 
Of  her  unequalled  liberties  and  laws, 
4* 


42  C03IMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

While,  in  that  nation, — shameful  to  relate, — 

One  man  in  five  is  horn  and  dies  a  slave. 

Is  this  my  country  ?  this  that  happy  land, 

The  wonder  and  the  envy  of  the  world  ? 

O  for  a  mantle  to  conceal  her  shame ! 

But  why,  when  Patriotism  cannot  hide 

The  ruin  which  her  guilt  will  surely  bring 

If  unrepented  ?  and  unless  the  God 

Who  poured  his  plagues  on  Egypt  till  she  let 

The  oppressed  go  free,  and  often  pours  his  wrath, 

In  earthquakes  and  tornadoes,  on  the  isles 

Of  western  India,  laying  waste  their  fields, 

Dashing  their  mercenary  ships  ashore, 

Tossing  the  isles  themselves  like  floating  wrecks, 

And  burying  towns  alive  in  one  wide  grave, 

No  sooner  ope'd  but  closed,  let  judgment  pass 

For  once  untasted  till  the  general  doom, 

Can  it  go  well  with  us  while  we  retain 

This  cursed  thing  ?     Will  not  untimely  frosts, 

Devouring  insects,  drought,  and  wind  and  hail, 

Destroy  the  fruits  of  ground  long  tilled  in  chains  ? 

Will  not  some  daring  spirit,  born  to  thoughts 

Above  his  beast-like  state,  find  out  the  truth, 

That  Africans  are  men ;  and,  catching  fire 

From  Freedom's  altar  raised  before  his  eyes 

With  incense  fuming  sweet,  in  others  light 

A  kindred  flame  in  secret,  till  a  train, 

Kindled  at  once,  deal  death  on  every  side  ? 

Cease  then,  Columbia,  for  thy  safety  cease, 

And  for  thine  honor,  to  proclaim  the  praise 

Of  thy  fair  shores  of  liberty  and  joy, 

While  thrice  five  hundred  thousand  wretched  slaves, 

In  thine  own  bosom,  start  at  every  word 

As  meant  to  mock  their  woes,  and  shake  their  chains, 

Thinking  defiance  which  they  dare  not  speak. 


Hymn  for  the  African  Colonization  Society. — Pierpont. 

With  thy  pure  dews  and  rains, 
Wash  out,  O  God,  the  stains 

From  Afric's  shore ; 
And,  while  her  palm-trees  bud, 


common-place:  rook  of  poetry.  43 

Let  not  her  children's  blood 
With  her  broad  Niger's  flood 
Be  mingled  more ! 

Quench,  righteous  God,  the  thirst 
That  Congo's  sons  hath  cursed, 

The  thirst  for  gold. 
Shall  not  thy  thunders  speak, 
Where  Mammon's  altars  reek, 
Where  maids  and  matrons  shriek, 

Bound,  bleeding,  sold  ? 

Hear'st  thou,  0  God,  those  chains, 
Clanking  on  Freedom's  plains, 

By  Christians  wrought ! 
Them,  who  those  chains  have  worn, 
Christians  from  home  have  torn, 
Christians  have  hither  borne, 

Christians  have  bought ! 

Cast  down,  great  God,  the  fanes 
That,  to  unhallowed  gains, 

Round  us  have  risen — 
Temples,  whose  priesthood  pore 
Moses  and  Jesus  o'er, 
Then  bolt  the  black  man's  door, 

The  poor  man's  prison ! 

Wilt  thou  not,  Lord,  at  last, 
From  thine  own  image,  cast 

Away  all  cords, 
But  that  of  love,  which  brings 
Man,  from  his  wanderings, 
Back  to  the  King  of  kings, 

The  Lord  of  lords ! 


Dedication  Hymn. — Pierpont. 

O  thou,  to  whom,  in  ancient  time, 
The  lyre  of  Hebrew  bards  was  strung, 

Whom  kings  adored  in  songs  sublime, 
And  prophets  praised  with  glowing  tongue,- 


44  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Not  now,  on  Zion's  height  alone, 
The  favored  worshipper  may  dwell, 

Nor  where,  at  sultry  noon,  thy  Son 
Sat,  weary,  by  the  patriarch's  well. 

From  every  place  below  the  skies, 

The  grateful  song,  the  fervent  prayer — 

The  incense  of  the  heart — may  rise 
To  heaven,  and  find  acceptance  there. 

In  this  thy  house,  whose  doors  we  now 
For  social  worship  first  unfold, 

To  thee  the  suppliant  throng  shall  bow, 
While  circling  years  on  years  are  rolled. 

To  thee  shall  age,  with  snowy  hair, 

And  strength  and  beauty,  bend  the  knee, 

And  childhood  lisp,  with  reverend  air, 
Its  praises  and  its  prayers  to  thee. 

O  thou,  to  whom,  in  ancient  time, 

The  lyre  of  prophet  bards  was  strung, 

To  thee,  at  last,' in  every  clime, - 
Shall  temples  rise,  and  praise  be  sung. 


Evening  Music  of  the  Angels. — Hillhouse. 

Low  warblings,  now,  and  solitary  harps, 
Were  heard  among  the  angels,  touched  and  tuned 
As  to  an  evening  hymn,  preluding  soft 
To  cherub  voices.     Louder  as  they  swelled, 
Deep  strings  struck  in,  and  hoarser  instruments, 
Mixed  with  clear  silver  sounds,  till  concord  rose 
Full  as  the  harmony  of  winds  to  heaven  ; 
Yet  sweet  as  nature's  springtide  melodies 
To  some  worn  pilgrim,  first,  with  glistening  eyes, 
Greeting  his  native  valley,  whence  the  sounds 
Of  rural  gladness,  herds,  and  bleating  flocks, 
The  chirp  of  birds,  blithe  voices,  lowing  kine, 
The  dash  of  waters,  reed,  or  rustic  pipe, 
Blent  with  the  dulcet  distance-mellowed  bell, 
Come,  like  the  echo  of  his  early  joys. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  45 

In  every  pause,  from  spirits  in  mid  air, 
Responsive  still  were  golden  viols  heard, 
And  heavenly  symphonies  stole  faintly  down. 


Vernal  Melody  in  the  Forest. — Carlos  Wilcox/ 

With  sonorous  notes 
Of  every  tone,  mixed  in  confusion  sweet, 
All  chanted  in  the  fulness  of  delight, 
The  forest  rings.     Where,  far  around  enclosed 
With  bushy  sides,  and  covered  high  above 
With  foliage  thick,  supported  by  bare  trunks, 
Like  pillars  rising  to  support  a  roof, 
It  seems  a  temple  vast,  the  space  within 
Rings  loud  and  clear  with  thrilling  melody. 
Apart,  but  near  the  choir,  with  voice  distinct, 
The  merry  mocking-bird  together  links 
In  one  continued  song  their  different  notes, 


*  He  was  a  true  poet,  and  deeply  interesting  in  his  character,  both  as 
a  man  and  a  Christian.  He  resembled  Cowper  in  many  respects ; — in 
the  gentleness  and  tenderness  of  his  sensibilities — in  the  modest  and  re- 
tiring disposition  of  his  mind — in  its  fine  culture,  and  its  original  poetical 
cast — and  not  a  little  in  the  character  of  his  poetry.  It  has  been  said  with 
truth,  that,  if  he  had  given  himself  to  poetry  as  his  chief  occupation,  he 
might  have  been  the  Cowper  of  Xew  England.  We  pretend  not  to  place 
his  unfinished  and  broken  compositions  on  a  level  with  the  works  of  the 
author  of  the  Task  ;  but  they  possess  much  of  his  spirit,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  are  original.  Like  Cowper,  "he  left  the  ambitious  and  luxuriant 
subjects  of  fiction  and  passion,  for  those  of  real  life  and  simple  nature, 
and  for  the  developement  of  his  own  earnest  feelings,  in  behalf  of  moral 
and  religious  truth."  Amidst  the  throngs  of  imitators,  whose  names 
have  crowded  the  pages  of  the  annuals  and  magazines,  his  is  never  to 
be  seen  ;  and  the  merits  of  his  poetry  are  almost  unknown  to  those  who 
regulate  the  criticisms  of  the  public  journals.  But  it  is  both  a  proof  and  a 
consequence  of  his  original  powers  and  his  elevated  feeling?,  that,  instead 
of  devoting  his  mind  to  the  composition  of  short,  artificial  pieces  for  the 
public  eye,  he  started  at  once  upon  a  wide  and  noble  subject,  with  the 
outline  in  his  mind  of  a  magnificent  moral  poem.  The  history,  the  sce- 
nery, and  the  public  and  domestic  manners  in  this  country,  afforded  scope 
for  the  composition  of  another  Task,  which,  if  the  powers  of  the  writer 
were  equal  to  his  subject,  would  be  more  for  America,  and  the  religious 
world,  than  even  Cowper's  was  for  England  and  his  fellow  men.  Mr. 
Wilcox  did  not  live  to  execute  his  design  ;  but  the  fragments  he  has  left 
us  are  so  rich,  in  a  vein  of  unaffected  poetry  and  piety,  that  they  make  us 
sorrowful  for  what  we  have  lost,  and  indignant  that  his  merits  are  so  little 
known  and  appreciated  beyond  a  small  circle  of  affectionate  Christian 
friends. — Ed, 


46  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Adding  new  life  and  sweetness  to  them  all. 
Hid  under  shrubs,  the  squirrel,  that  in  fields 
Frequents  the  stony  wall  and  briery  fence, 
Here  chirps  so  shrill  that  human  feet  approach 
Unheard  till  just  upon  him,  when,  with  cries 
Sudden  and  sharp,  he  darts  to  his  retreat, 
Beneath  the  mossy  hillock  or  aged  tree ; 
But  oft,  a  moment  after,  re-appears, 
First  peeping  out,  then  starting  forth  at  once 
With  a  courageous  air,  yet  in  his  pranks 
Keeping  a  watchful  eye,  nor  venturing  far 
Till  left  unheeded. 


Close  of  the  Vision  of  Judgment. — Hill, house. 

As  when,  from  some  proud  capital  that  crowns 
Imperial  Gan'ges,  the  reviving  breeze  * 
Sweeps  the  dank  mist,  or  hoary  river  fog, 
Impervious,  mantled  o'er  her  highest  towers, 
Bright  on  the  eye  rush  Brahma's  temples,  capped 
With  spiry  tops,  gay-trellised  minarets, 
Pagods  of  gold,  and  mosques  with  burnished  domes, 
Gilded,  and  glistening  in  the  morning  sun, 
So  from  the  hill  the  cloudy  curtains  rolled, 
And,  in  the  lingering  lustre  of  the  eve, 
Again  the  Savior  and  his  seraphs  shone « 
Emitted  sudden  in  his  rising,  flashed 
Intenser  light,  as  toward  the  right  hand  host 
Mild  turning,  with  a  look  ineffable, 
The  invitation  he  proclaimed  in  accents 
Which  on  their  ravished  ears  poured  thrilling,  like 
The  silver  sound  of  many  trumpets  heard 
Afar  in  sweetest  jubilee  ;  then,  swift 
Stretching  his  dreadful  sceptre  to  the  left, 
That  shot  forth  horrid  lightnings,  in  a  voice 
Clothed  but  in  half  its  terrors,  yet  to  them 
Seemed  like  the  crush  of  Heaven,  pronounced  the  doom. 
The  sentence  uttered,  as  with  life  instinct, 
The  throne  uprose  majestically  slow  ; 
Each  angel  spread  his  wings ;  in  one  dread  swell 
Of  triumph  mingling  as  they  mounted,  trumpets, 
And  harps,  and  golden  lyres,  and  timbrels  sweet, 
And  many  a  strange  and  deep-toned  instrument 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  47 

Of  heavenly  minstrelsy  unknown  on  earth, 
And  angels'  voices,  and  the  loud  acclaim 
Of  all  the  ransomed,  like  a  thunder-shout. 
Far  through  the  skies  melodious  echoes  rolled, 
And  faint  hosannas  distant  climes  returned. 

Down  from  the  lessening  multitude  came  faint 
And  fainter  still  the  trumpet's  dying  peal, 
All  else  in  distance  lost,  when,  to  receive 
Their  new  inhabitants,  the  heavens  unfolded. 
Up  gazing,  then,  with  streaming  eyes,  a  glimpse 
The  wicked  caught  of  Paradise,  where  streaks 
Of  splendor,  golden  gleamings,  radiance  shone, 
Like  the  deep  glories  of  declining  day, 
When,  washed  by  evening  showers,  the  huge-orbed  sun 
Breaks  instantaneous  o'er  the  illumined  world. 
Seen  far  within,  fair  forms  moved  graceful  by, 
Slow  turning  to  the  light  their  snowy  wings. 
A  deep-drawn,  agonizing  groan  escaped 
The  hapless  outcasts,  when  upon  the  Lord 
The  glowing  portals  closed.     L^ndone,  they  stood 
Wistfully  gazing  on  the  cold  gray  heaven, 
As  if  to  catch,  alas  !  a  hope  not  there. 
But  shades  began  to  gather,  night  approached, 
Murky  and  lowering ;  round  with  horror  rolled 
On  one  another  their  despairing  eyes, 
That  glared  with  anguish ;  starless,  hopeless  gloom 
Fell  on  their  souls,  never  to  know  an  end. 
Though  in  the  far  horizon  lingered  yet 
A  lurid  gleam ;  black  clouds  were  mustering  there ; 
Red  flashes,  followed  by  low,  muttering  sounds, 
Announced  the  fiery  tempest  doomed  to  hurl 
The  fragments  of  the  earth  again  to  chaos. 
Wild  gusts  swept  by,  upon  whose  hollow  wing 
Unearthly  voices,  yells,  and  ghastly  peals 
Of  demon  laughter  came.     Infernal  shapes 
Flitted  along  the  sulphurous  wreaths,  or  plunged 
Their  dark,  impure  abyss,  as  sea-foul  dive 

Their  watery  element. O'erwhelmed  with  sights 

And  sounds  of  horror,  I  awoke ;  and  found 
For  gathering  storms,  and  signs  of  coming  wo, 
The  midnight  moon  gleaming  upon  my  bed 
Serene  and  peaceful.     Gladly  I  surveyed  her 
Walking  in  brightness  through  the  stars  of  heaven, 
And  blessed  the  respite  ere  the  day  of  doom. 


48  COMMOX-PLACE    EOOK    OF    POETRY. 


"As  thy  Day,  so  shall  thy  Strength  be." — 
Mrs.  Sigotjrivey. 

When  adverse  winds  and  waves  arise, 
And  in  my  heart  despondence  sighs, — 
When  life  her  throng  of  care  reveals, 
And  weakness  o'er  my  spirit  steals, — 
Grateful  I  hear  the  kind  decree, 
That  "  as  my  day,  my  strength  shall  be." 

When,  with  sad  footstep,  memory  roves 
Mid  smitten  joys,  and  buried  loves, — 
When  sleep  my  tearful  pillow  flies, 
And  dewy  morning  drinks  my  sighs,- — 
Still  to  thy  promise,  -Lord,  I  flee, 
That  "  as  my  day,  my  strength  shall  be." 

One  trial'  more  must  yet  be  past,   * 

One  pang, — the  keenest,  and  the  last ; 

And  when,  with  brow  convulsed  and  pale, 

My  feeble,  quivering  heart-strings  fail, 

Redeemer,  grant  my  soul  to  see 

That  "  as  her  day,  her  strength  shall  be." 


The  Pilgrims. — Mrs.  Sigournet. 

How  slow  yon  tiny  vessel  ploughs  the  main  ! 
Amid  the  heavy  billows  now  she  seems 
A  toiling  atom, — then  from  wave  to  wave 
Leaps  madly,  by  the  tempest  lashed, — or  reels, 
Half  wrecked,  through  gulfs  profound. 

— Moons  wax  and  wane, 
But  still  that  lonely  traveller  treads  the  deep. — 
I  see  an  ice-bound  coast,  toward  which  she  steers 
With  such  a  tardy  movement,  that  it  seems 
Stern  Winter's  hand  hath  turned  her  keel  to  stone, 
And  sealed  his  victory  on  her  slippery  shrouds. — - 
They  land! — They  land! — not  like  the  Genoese, 
With  glittering  sword  and  gaudy  train,  and  eye 
Kindling  with  golden  fancies. — Forth  they  come 
From  their  long  prison, — hardy  forms,  that  brave 
The  world's  unkindness, — men  of  hoary  hair, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  49 

And  virgins  of  firm  heart,  and  matrons  grave, 

Who  hush  the  wailing  infant  with  a  glance. — 

Bleak  Nature's  desolation  wraps  them  round, 

Eternal  forests,  and  unyielding  earth, 

And  savage  men,  who  through  the  thickets  peer 

With  vengeful  arrow. — What  could  lure  their  steps 

To  this  drear  desert  ? — Ask  of  him  who  left 

His  father's  home  to  roam  through  Haran's  wilds, 

Distrusting  not  the  Guide  who  called  him  forth, 

Nor  doubting,  though  a  stranger,  that  his  seed 

Should  be  as  Ocean's  sands. — 

But  yon  lone  bark 
Hath  spread  her  parting  sail. — 

They  crowd  the  strand, 
Those  few,  lone  pilgrims. — Can  ye  scan  the  wo 
That  wrings  their  bosoms,  as  the  last  frail  link 
Binding  to  man,  and  habitable  earth, 
Is  severed  ? — Can  ye  tell  what  pangs  were  there, 
What  keen  regrets,  what  sickness  of  the  heart, 
What  yearnings  o'er  their  forfeit  land  of  birth, 
Their  distant,  dear  ones  ? — 

Long,  with  straining  eye, 
They  watch  the  lessening  speck. — Heard  ye  no  shriek 
Of  anguish,  when  that  bitter  loneliness 
Sank  down  into  their  bosoms  ? — No!  they  turn 
Back  to  their  dreary,  famished  huts,  and  pray  ! — 
Pray, — and  the  ills  that  haunt  this  transient  life 
Fade  into  air. — Up  in  each  girded  breast 
There  sprang  a  rooted  and  mysterious  strength, — 
A  loftiness, — to  face  a  world  in  arms, — 
To  strip  the  pomp  from  sceptres, — and  to  lay 
Upon  the  sacred  altar  the  warm  blood 
Of  slain  affections,  when  they  rise  between 
The  soul  and  God. — 

And  can  ye  deem  it  strange 
That  from  their  planting  such  a  branch  should  bloom 
As  nations  envy  ? — Would  a  germ,  embalmed 
With  prayer's  pure  tear-drops,  strike  no  deeper  root 
Than  that  which  mad  ambition's  hand  doth  strew 
Upon  the  winds,  to  reap  the  winds  again  ? 
Hid  by  its  veil  of  waters  from  the  hand 
Of  greedy  Europe,  their  bold  vine  spread  forth 
In  giant  strength. — 

Its  early  clusters,  crushed 
In  England's  wine-press,  gave  the  tyrant  host 
5 


50  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

A  draught  of  deadly  wine. 0,  ye  who  boast 

In  your  free  veins  the  blood  of  sires  like  these, 
Lose  not  their  lineaments. — Should  Mammon  cling 
Too  close  around  your  heart, — or  wealth  beget 
That  bloated  luxury  which  eats  the  core 
From  manly  virtue, — or  the  tempting  world 
Make  faint  the  Christian  purpose  in  your  soul, 
Turn  ye  to  Plymouth's  beach, — and  on  that  rock 
Kneel  in  their  foot-prints,  and  renew  the  vow 
They  breathed  to  God. 


The  Coral  Grove. — Percival. 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl  shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea  plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow ; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 
For  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air : 
There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter: 
There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 
The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea  ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea : 
And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 
Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  Spirit  of  storms,    ' 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  waves  his  own : 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 
Where  the  myriad  voices  of  Ocean  roar, 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore  : 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  51 

Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


Hebrew  Melody. — Mrs.  J.  G.  Brooks. 

Jeremiah  x.  17. 

From  the  hall  of  our  fathers  in  anguish  we  fled, 
Nor  again  will  its  marble  re-echo  our  tread, 
For  the  breath  of  the  Siroc  has  blasted  our  name, 
And  the  frown  of  Jehovah  has  crushed  us  in  shame. 

His  robe  was  the  whirlwind,  his  voice  was  the  thunder, 

And  earth,  at  his  footstep,  was  riven  asunder; 

The  mantle  of  midnight  had  shrouded  the  sky, 

But  we  knew  where  He  stood  by  the  flash  of  His  eye. 

O  Judah!  how  long  must  thy  weary  ones  weep, 
Far,  far  from  the  land  where  their  forefathers  sleep : 
How  long  ere  the  glory  that  brightened  the  mountain 
Will  welcome  the  exile  to  Siloa's  fountain  ? 


To  a  Child. — Anonymous. 

M  The  memory  of  thy  name,  dear  one, 

Lives  in  my  inmost  heart, 
Linked  with  a  thousand  hopes  and  fears, 

That  will  not  thence  depart." 

Things  of  high  import  sound  I  in  thine  ears, 

Dear  child,  though  now  thou  may'st  not  feel  their  power. 

But  hoard  them  up,  and  in  thy  coming  years 

Forget  them  not ;  and  when  earth's  tempests  lower, 

A  talisman  unto  thee  shall  they  be, 

To  give  thy  weak  arm  strength,  to  make  thy  dim  eye  see. 

Seek  Truth — that  pure,  celestial  Truth,  whose  birth 
Was  in  the  heaven  of  heavens,  clear,  sacred,  shrined, 

In  reason's  light.     Not  oft  she  visits  earth  ; 
But  her  majestic  port  the  willing  mind, 


52  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Through  faith,  may  sometimes  see.     Give  her  thy  soul, 
Nor  faint,  though  error's  surges  loudly  'gainst  thee  roll. 

Be  free — not  chiefly  from  the  iron  chain, 

But  from  the  one  which  passion  forges  ;  be 
The  master  of  thyself !  If  lost,  regain 

The  rule  o'er  chance,  sense,  circumstance.     Be  free. 
Trample  thy  proud  lusts  proudly  'neath  thy  feet, 
And  stand  erect,  as  for  a  heaven-born  one  is  meet. 

Seek  Virtue.     Wear  her  armor  to  the  fight ; 

Then,  as  a  wrestler  gathers  strength  from  strife, 
Shalt  thou  be  nerved  to  a  more  vigorous  might 

By  each  contending,  turbulent  ill  of  life. 
Seek  Virtue ;  she  alone  is  all  divine ; 
And,  having  found,  be  strong  in  God's  own  strength  and  thine. 

Truth — Freedom — Virtue — these,    dear     child,    have 
power, 

If  rightly  cherished,  to  uphold,  sustain, 
And  bless  thy  spirit,  in  its  darkest  hour : 

Neglect  them — thy  celestial  gifts  are  vain — 
In  dust  shall  thy  weak  wing  be  dragged  and  soiled ; 
Thy  soul  be  crushed  'neath  gauds  for  which  it  basely  toiled. 


The  Western  World. — Bryant. 

Late,  from  this  western  shore,  that  morning  chased 
The  deep  and  ancient  night,  that  threw  its  shroud 
O'er  the  green  land  of  groves,  the  beautiful  waste, 
Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifter  up  of  proud 
Sky-mingling  mountains  that  o'erlook  the  cloud. 
Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  brightness  rear, 
Trees  waved,  and  the  brown  hunter's  shouts  were  loud 
Amid  the  forest ;  and  the  bounding  deer 
Fled  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt  wolf  yelled  near. 

And  where  his  willing  waves  yon  bright  blue  bay 
Sends  up,  to  kiss  his  decorated  brim, 
And  cradles,  in  his  soft  embrace,  the  gay 
Young  group  of  grassy  islands  born  ot  him, 
And,  crowding  nigh,  or  in  the  distance  dim, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  DO 

Lifts  the  white  throng  of  sails,  that  bear  or  bring 
The  commerce  of  the  world — with  tawny  limb, 
And  belt  and  beads  in  sunlight  glistening, 
The  savage  urged  his  skiff  like  wild  bird  on  the  wing. 

Then,  all  his  youthful  paradise  around, 
And  all  the  broad  and  boundless  mainland,  lay 
Cooled  by  the  interminable  wood,  that  frowned 
O'er  mound  and  vale,  where  never  summer  ray 
Glanced,  till  the  strong  tornado  broke  his  way 
Through  the  gray  giants  of  the  sylvan  wild ; 
Yet  many  a  sheltered  glade,  with  blossoms  gay, 
Beneath  the  showery  sky  and  sunshine  mild, 
Within  the  shaggy  arms  of  that  dark  forest  smiled. 

There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 
Spread  its  blue  sheet,  that  flashed  with  many  an  oar, 
Where  the  brown  otter  plunged  him  from  the  brake, 
And  the  deer  drank — as  the  light  gale  flew  o'er, 
The  twinkling  maize-field  rustled  on  the  shore ; 
And  while  that  spot,  so  wild,  and  lone,  and  fair, 
A  look  of  glad  and  innocent  beauty  wore, 
And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive  there : 

Not  unavenged— the  foeman,  from  the  wood, 
Beheld  the  deed,  and,  when  the  midnight  shade 
Was  stillest,  gorged  his  battle-axe  with  blood ; 
All  died — the  wailing  babe — the  shrieking  maid — 
And  in  the  flood  of  fire  that  scathed  the  glade, 
The  roofs  went  down  ;  but  deep  the  silence  grew 
When  on  the  dewy  woods  the  day-beam  played  ; 
No  more  the  cabin  smokes  rose  wreathed  and  blue, 
And  ever  by  their  lake  lay  moored  the  light  canoe. 

Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 
These  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled ; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads  ; 
Streams  numberless,  that  many  a  fountain  feeds, 
Shine,  disembowered,  and  give  to  sun  and  breeze 
Their  virgin  waters ;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies  forth,  that  toward  the  western  seas 
Spread,  like  a  rapid  flame  among  the  autumnal  trees. 
5* 


54  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length, 
Throws  its  last  fetters  off;  and  who  shall  place 
A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 
Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race. 
Far,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite  space, 
Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light 
Into  the  depths  of  ages :  we  may  trace, 
Afar,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  flight, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 


To  a  Waterfowl. — Bryant. 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  -with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power,  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere  ; 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend 

Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  55 

Thou'rt  gone  ;  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He,  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


The  Constancy  of  Nature  contrasted  with  the  Changes  in 
Human  Life. — Dana. 

How  like  eternity  doth  nature  seem 
To  life  of  man — that  short  and  fitful  dream ! 
I  look  around  me  ; — no  where  can  I  trace 
Lines  of  decay  that  mark  our  human  race. 
These  are  the  murmuring  waters,  these  the  flowers 
I  mused  o'er  in  my  earlier,  better  hours. 
Like  sounds  and  scents  of  yesterday  they  come. 
Long  years  have  past  since  this  was  last  my  home ! 
And  I  am  weak,  and  toil-worn  is  my  frame ; 
But  all  this  vale  shuts  in  is  still  the  same  : 
'Tis  I  alone  am  changed ;  they  know  me  not : 
I  feel  a  stranger — or  as  one  forgot. 

The  breeze  that  cooled  my  warm  and  youthful  brow, 
Breathes  the  same  freshness  on  its  wrinkles  now. 
The  leaves  that  flung  around  me  sun  and  shade, 
While  gazing  idly  on  them,  as  they  played, 
Are  holding  yet  their  frolic  in  the  air ; 
The  motion,  joy,  and  beauty  still  are  there — 
But  not  for  me  ! — I  look  upon  the  ground  : 
Myriads  of  happy  faces  throng  me  round, 
Familiar  to  my  eye  ;  yet  heart  and  mind 
In  vain  would  now  the  old  communion  find. 
Ye  were  as  living,  conscious  beings,  then, 
With  whom  I  talked — but  I  have  talked  with  men ! 
With  uncheered  sorrow,  with  cold  hearts  I've  met; 
Seen  honest  minds  by  hardened  craft  beset ; 
Seen  hope  cast  down,  turn  deathly  pale  its  glow ; 
Seen  virtue  rare,  but  more  of  virtue's  show. 


56  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


And  fare  thee  well,  my  own  green,  quiet  Vale. — Dai*  a. 

The  sun  was  nigh  its  set,  when  we  were  come 
Once  more  where  stood  the  good  man's  lowly  home. 
We  sat  beside  the  door ;  a  gorgeous  sight 
Above  our  heads — the  elm  in  golden  light. 
Thoughtful  and  silent  for  awhile — he  then 
Talked  of  my  coming.—"  Thou'lt  not  go  again 
From  thine  own  vale  ;  and  we  will  make  thy  home 
Pleasant;  and  it  shall  glad  thee  to  have  come." 
Then  of  my  garden  and  my  house  he  spoke, 
And  well  ranged  orchard  on  the  sunny  slope ; 
And  grew  more  bright  and  happy  in  his  talk 
Of  social  winter  eve,  and  summer  walk. 
And,  while  I  listened,  to  my  sadder  soul 
A  sunnier,  gentler  sense  in  silence  stole  ; 
Nor  had  I  heart  to  spoil  the  little  plan 
Which  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  kind  old  man. 

At  length  I  spake — 

"  No !  here  I  must  not  stay 
I'll  rest  to-night — to-morrow  go  my  way." 

He  did  not  urge  me.     Looking  in  my  face, 
As  he  each  feeling  of  the  heart  could  trace, 
He  prest  my  hand,  and  prayed  I  might  be  blest, — 
Where'er  I  went,  that  Heaven  would  give  me  rest. 

The  silent  night  has  past  into  the  prime 
Of  day — to  thoughtful  souls  a  solemn  time. 
For  man  has  wakened  from  his  nightly  death, 
And  shut  up  sense  to  morning's  life  and  breath. 
He  sees  go  out  in  heaven  the  stars  that  kept 
Their  glorious  watch  while  he,  unconscious,  slept, — 
Feels  God  was  round  him  while  he  knew  it  not — 
Is  awed — then  meets  the  world — and  God's  forgot. 
So  may  I  not  forget  thee,  holy  Power ! 
Be  to  me  ever  as  at  this  calm  hour. 

The  tree  tops  now  are  glittering  in  the  sun : 
Away!  'Tis  time  my  journey  was  begun. 

Why  should  I  stay,  when  all  I  loved  are  fled, 
Strange  to  the  living,  knowing  but  the  dead ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  57 

A  homeless  wanderer  through  my  early  home  ; 
Gone  childhood's  joy,  and  not  a  joy  to  come  ? 
To  pass  each  cottage,  and  to  have  it  tell, 
Here  did  thy  mother,  here  a  playmate  dwell ; 
To  think  upon  that  lost  one's  girlish  bloom, 
And  see  that  sickly  smile,  and  mark  her  doom ! — 
It  haunts  me  now — her  dim  and  wildered  brain. 
I  would  not  look  upon  that  eye  again ! 

Let  me  go,  rather,  where  I  shall  not  find 
Aught  that  my  former  self  will  bring  to  mind. 
These  old,  familiar  things,  where'er  I  tread, 
Are  round  me  like  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 
No !  wide  and  foreign  lands  shall  be  my  range, 
That  suits  the  lonely  soul,  where  all  is  strange. 

Then  for  the  dashing  sea,  the  broad  full  sail ! 
And  fare  thee  well,  my  own  green,  quiet  vale. 


Sonnet. 

The  Free  Mind.— 

William  Lloyd  Garrison.* 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 
And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 

And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design, 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways  : 

♦This  sonnet,  written  during  Mr.  Garrison's  despotic  imprisonment,  pos- 
sesses a  nobleness  and  an  energy  in  the  thought,  a  corresponding  ease  and 
originality  in  the  expression,  and  an  antique  richness  in  its  whole  structure, 
which  make  it  worthy  of  the  happiest  'Olden  Times'  of  the  English  Muse. 

With  all  the  heart,  we  bid  its  author  God  speed  in  his  efforts  in  the  cause 
of  freedom.  But  it  needs  patience  and  prudence,  as  well  as  stern  moral 
courage.  The  possible  result  of  the  Colonization  Society,  and  the  success 
which  may  attend  the  efforts  for  the  entire  abolition  of  slavery  in  this  coun- 
try, constitute  the  great  problem,  on  the  solution  of  which  our  prosperity, 
and  perhaps  even  our  existence  as  a  nation,  depends.  Every  man  who  can 
speak,  every  editor  who  can  influence  the  public  mind,  should  certainly  be 
doing  all  in  his  power  to  hasten  forward  the  period  of  complete  emancipa- 
tion. 

"  Speed  it,  O  Father  !  Let  thy  kingdom  come  !" 

Ed. 


58  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control ! 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose  : 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale  to  vale 

It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers ; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fire-side  tale, 

Or,  in  sweet  converse,  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star ! 


Marco  Bozzaris. — F.  G.  Halleck. 

[He  fell  in  an  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the  an- 
cient Plataea,  August  20,  18*23,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of  victory.  His 
last  words  were — "  To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure,  and  not  a  pain. "J 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power  ; 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring, — 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke  ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentry's  shriek, 
"  To  arms  !  they  come  :  the  Greek !  the  Greek  !" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  ; — 
"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires, 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires, 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God — and  your  native  land  !" 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETKY.  59 

They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well, 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath  ; — 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
Which  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; — 
Come  in  Consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm  ; — 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine, — 
And  thou  art  terrible  :  the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier, 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word, 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's — 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


60  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Weehawken. — F.  G.  Halleck. 

Weehawken  !  in  thy  mountain  scenery  yet, 

All  we  adore  of  Nature,  in  her  wild 
And  frolic  hour  of  infancy,  is  met ; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smiled 
Upon  a  lovelier  scene,  than  the  full  eye 
Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  high, 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes,  he  climbs 

O'er  crags  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 

And  knows  that  sense  of  danger,  which  sublimes 
The  breathless  moment — when  his  daring  step 

Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 

The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear, 

Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom, 

And  clings  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  force, 

As  the  heart  clings  to  .life  ;  and  when  resume 
The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course, 

There  lingers  a  deep  feeling,  like  the  moan 

Of  wearied  ocean,  when  the  storm  is  gone. 

In  such  an  hour,  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 

Ocean,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  burst  before  him — 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  summer's  sky,  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him 

The  city  bright  below  ;  and  far  away, 

Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay. 

Tall  spire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  battlement, 
And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air, 

And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 
Green  isle,  and  circling  shore,  are  blended  there, 

In  wild  reality.     When  life  is  old, 

And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 

Its  memory  of  this ;  nor  lives  there  one, 

Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood  days 

Of  happiness  were  passed  beneath  that  sun, 
That  in  his  manhood  prime  can  calmly  gaze 

Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 

Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  61 


On  laying  the  Corner  Stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monu- 
ment.  PlERPONT. 

O,  is  not  this  a  holy  spot  ? 

Tis  the  high  place  of  Freedom's  birth  ! 
God  of  our  fathers!  is  it  not 

The  holiest  spot  of  all  the  earth  ? 

Quenched  is  thy  flame  on  Horeb's  side ; 

The  robber  roams  o'er  Sinai  now ; 
And  those  old  men,  thy  seers,  abide 

No  more  on  Zion's  mournful  brow. 

But  on  this  hill  thou,  Lord,  hast  dwelt, 

Since  round  its  head  the  war-cloud  curled, 

And  wrapped  our  fathers,  where  they  knelt 
In  prayer  and  battle  for  a  world. 

Here  sleeps  their  dust :  'tis  holy  ground  : 
And  we,  the  children  of  the  brave, 

From  the  four  winds  are  gathered  round, 
To  lay  our  offering  on  their  grave. 

Free  as  the  winds  around  us  blow, 
Free  as  the  waves  below  us  spread, 

We  rear  a  pile,  that  long  shall  throw 
Its  shadow  on  their  sacred  bed. 

But  on  their  deeds  no-shade  shall  fall, 

While  o'er  their  couch  thy  sun  shall  flame  : 

Thine  ear  was  bowed  to  hear  their  call, 
And  thy  right  hand  shall  guard  their  fame. 


Rousseau  and  Cowper. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

Rousseau  could  weep  ;  yes,  with  a  heart  of  stone, 
The  impious  sophist  could  recline  beside 
The  pure  and  peaceful  lake,  and  muse  alone 
On  all  its  loveliness  at  even  tide — 
On  its  small  running  waves,  in  purple  dyed, 
Beneath  bright  clouds  or  all  the  glowing  skv, 
6 


62  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

On  the  white  sails  that  o'er  its  bosom  glide, 
And  on  surrounding  mountains  wild  and  high, 
Till  tears  unbidden  gushed  from  his  enchanted  eye. 

But  his  were  not  the  tears  of  feeling  fine 
Of  grief  or  love  ;  at  fancy's  flash  they  flowed, 
Like  burning  drops  from  some  proud  lonely  pine 
By  lightning  fired ;  his  heart  with  passion  glowed 
Till  it  consumed  his  life,  and  yet  he  showed 
A  chilling  coldness  both  to  friend  and  foe, 
As  Etna,  with  its  centre  an  abode 
Of  wasting  fire,  chills  with  the  icy  snow 
Of  all  its  desert  brow  the  living  world  below. 

Was  he  but  justly  wretched  from  his  crimes  ? 
Then  why  was  Cowper's  anguish  oft  as  keen, 
With  all  the  heaven-born  virtue  that  sublimes 
Genius  and  feeling,  and  to  things  unseen 
Lifts  the  pure  heart  through  clouds,  that  roll  between 
The  earth  and  skies,- to  darken  human  hope  ? 
Or  wherefore  did  those  clouds  thus  intervene 
To  render  vain  faith's  lifted  telescope, 
And  leave  him  in  thick  gloom  his  weary  way  to  grope  ? 

He,  too,  could  give  himself  to  musing  deep  ; 
By  the  calm  lake,  at  evening,  he  could  stand, 
Lonely  and  sad,  to  see  the  moonlight  sleep 
On  all  its  breast,  by  not  an  insect  fanned, 
And  hear  low  voices  on  the  far-off  strand, 
Or,  through  the  still  and  dewy  atmosphere, 
The  pipe's  soft  tones,  waked  by  some  gentle  hand, 
From  fronting  shore  and  woody  island  near 
In  echoes  quick  returned  more  mellow  and  more  clear. 

And  he  could  cherish  wild  and  mournful  dreams, 
In  the  pine  grove,  when  low  the  full  moon,  fair, 
Shot  under  lofty  tops  her  level  beams, 
Stretching  the  shades  of  trunks  erect  and  bare, 
In  stripes  drawn  parallel  with  order  rare, 
As  of  some  temple  vast  or  colonnade, 
While  on  green  turf,  made  smooth  without  his  care, 
He  wandered  o'er  its  stripes  of  light  and  shade, 
And  heard  the  dying  day-breeze  all  the  boughs  pervade. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  63 

'Twas  thus,  in  nature's  bloom  and  solitude, 
He  nursed  his  grief  till  nothing  could  assuage  i 
'Twas  thus  his  tender  spirit  was  subdued, 
Till  in  life's  toils  it  could  no  more  engage ; 
And  his  had  been  a  useless  pilgrimage, 
Had  he  been  gifted  with  no  sacred  power, 
To  send  his  thoughts  to  every  future  age  ; 
But  he  is  gone  where  grief  will  not  devour, 
Where  beauty  will  not  fade,  and  skies  will  never  lower. 

To  that  bright  world  where  things  of  earth  appear 
Stripped  of  false  charms,  my  fancy  often  flies, 
To  ask  him  there  what  life  is  happiest  here ; 
And,  as  he  points  around  him,  and  replies 
With  glowing  lips,  my  heart  within  me  dies, 
And  conscience  whispers  of  a  dreadful  bar, 
When,  in  some  scene  where  every  beauty  lies, 
A  soft,  sweet  pensiveness  begins  to  mar 
The  joys  of  social  life,  and  with  its  claims  to  war. 


To  the  Dead. — Brainard. 

How  many  now  are  dead  to  me 

That  live  to  others  yet ! 
How  many  are  alive  to  me 
Who  crumble  in  their  graves,  nor  see 
That  sickening,  sinking  look  which  we 

Till  dead  can  ne'er  forget. 

Beyond  the  blue  seas,  far  away, 

Most  wretchedly  alone, 
One  died  in  prison,  far  away, 
Where  stone  on  stone  shut  out  the  day, 
And  never  hope  or  comfort's  ray 

In  his  lone  dungeon  shone. 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  me  ; 

Though  months  and  years  have  passed, 
In  a  lone  hour,  his  sigh  to  me 
Comes  like  the  hum  of  some  wild  bee, 
And  then  his  form  and  face  I  see 

As  when  I  saw  him  last. 


64  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  one,  with  a  bright  lip,  and  cheek, 

And  eye,  is  dead  to  me. 
How  pale  the  bloom  of  his  smooth  cheek ! 
His  lip  was  cold — it  would  not  speak  ; 
His  heart  was  dead,  for  it  did  not  break ; 

And  his  eye,  for  it  did  not  see. 

Then  for  the  living  be  the  tomb, 

And  for  the  dead  the  smile ; 
Engrave  oblivion  on  the  tomb 
Of  pulseless  life  and  deadly  bloom — 
Dim  is  such  glare  ;  but  bright  the  gloom 
Around  the  funeral  pile. 


The  Deep. — Brainard. 

There's  beauty  in  the  deep  : — 
The  wave  is  bluer  than  the  sky ;  „ 
And,  though  the  light  shine  bright  on  high, 
More  softly  do  the  sea-gems  glow 
That  sparkle  in  the  depths  below ; 
The  rainbow's  tints  are  only  made 
When  on  the  waters  they  are  laid, 
And  sun  and  moon  most  sweetly  shine 
Upon  the  ocean's  level  brine. 

There's  beauty  in  the  deep. 

There's  music  in  the  deep  :— 
It  is  not  in  the  surf's  rough  roar, 
Nor  in  the  whispering,  shelly  shore — 
They  are  but  earthly  sounds,  that  tell 
How  little  of  the  sea-nymph's  shell, 
That  sends  its  loud,  clear  note  abroad, 
Or  winds  its  softness  through  the  flood, 
Echoes  through  groves  with  coral  gay, 
And  dies,  on  spongy  banks,  away. 

There's  music  in  the  deep. 

There's  quiet  in  the  deep  : — 
Above,  let  tides  and  tempests  rave, 
And  earth-born  whirlwinds  wake  the  wave ; 
Above,  let  care  and  fear  contend, 
With  sin  and  sorrow  to  the  end : 


COMMON-PLACE    BOUKL    OF    POETRY.  65 

Here,  far  beneath  the  tainted  foam, 
That  frets  above  our  peaceful  home, 
We  dream  in  joy,  and  wake  in  love, 
Nor  know  the  rage  that  yells  above. 
There's  quiet  in  the  deep. 


Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower. — Professor  Norton. 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright 

Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie  ! 
Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 

Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky ! 

In  grateful  silence,  earth  receives 
The  general  blessing  ;  fresh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 

A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale  ; 
The  wind  flows  cool ;  the  scented  ground 

Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 

Mid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 

Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 
Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  awhile, 

Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth  ;  from  off  the  scene 

Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung ; 
And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  Nature — yet  the  same — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fanned, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 

Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 

And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 
6* 


66  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Drink  in  her  influence  ;  low-born  care, 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire, 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air, 
And  'mid  this  living  light  expire. 


The  Child1 's  Wish  in  June. — Mrs.  Gilman. 

Mother,  mother,  the  winds  are  at  play, 
Prithee,  let  me  be  idle  to-day. 
Look,  dear  mother,  the  flowers  all  lie 
Languidly  under  the  bright  blue  sky. 
See,  how  slowly  the  streamlet  glides; 
Look,  how  the  violet  roguishly  hides  ; 
Even  the  butterfly  rests  on  the  rose, 
And  scarcely  sips  the  sweets  as  he  goes. 
Poor  Tray  is  asleep  in  the  noon-day  sun, 
And  the  flies  go  about  him  one  by  one  ; 
And  pussy  sits  near  with  a  sleepy  grace, 
Without  ever  thinking  of  washing  her  face. 
There  flies  a  bird  to  a  neighboring  tree, 
But  very  lazily  flieth  he, 
And  he  sits  and  twitters  a  gentle  note, 
That  scarcely  ruffles  his  little  throat. 

You  bid  me  be  busy ;  but,  mother,  hear 
How  the  hum-drum  grasshopper  soundeth  near, 
And  the  soft  west  wind  is  so  light  in  its  play, 
It  scarcely  moves  a  leaf  on  the  spray. 

I  wish,  oh,  I  wish,  I  was  yonder  cloud, 
That  sails  about  with  its  misty  shroud  ; 
Books  and  work  I  no  more  should  see, 
And  I'd  come  and  float,  dear  mother,  o'er  thee. 


From  "The  Minstrel  Girl." — James  G.  Whittier. 

She  leaned  against  her  favorite  tree, 
The  golden  sunlight  melting  through 

The  twined  branches,  as  the  free 
And  easy-pinioned  breezes  flew 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  67 

Around  the  bloom  and  greenness  there, 

Awaking  all  to  life  and  motion, 
Like  unseen  spirits  sent  to  bear 

Earth's  perfume  to  the  barren  ocean 
That  ocean  lay  before  her  then 

Like  a  broad  lustre,  to  send  back 
The  scattered  beams  of  day  again 

To  burn  along  its  sunset  track ! 
And  broad  and  beautiful  it  shone  ; 

As  quickened  by  some  spiritual  breath, 
Its  very  waves  seemed  dancing  on 

To  music  whispered  underneath. 

And  there  she  leaned, — that  minstrel  girl ! 

The  breeze's  kiss  was  soft  and  meek 
Where  coral  melted  into  pearl 

On  parted  lip  and  glowing  cheek ; 
Her  dark  and  lifted  eye  had  caught 

Its  lustre  from  the  spirit's  gem ; 
And  round  her  brow  the  light  of  thought 

Was  like  an  angel's  diadem ; 
For  genius,  as  a  living  coal, 

Had  touched  her  lip  and  heart  with  flame, 
And  on  the  altar  of  her  soul 

The  fire  of  inspiration  came. 
And  early  she  had  learned  to  love 

Each  holy  charm  to  Nature  given, — 
The  changing  earth,  the  skies  above, 

Were  prompters  to  her  dreams  of  Heaven ! 
She  loved  the  earth — the  streams  that  wind 

Like  music  from  its  hills  of  green — 
The  stirring  boughs  above  them  twined — 

The  shifting  light  and  shade  between  ; — 
The  fall  of  waves — the  fountain  gush — 

The  sigh  of  winds — the  music  heard 
At  even-tide,  from  air  and  bush — 

The  minstrelsy  of  leaf  and  bird. 
But  chief  she  loved  the  sunset  sky — 

Its  golden  clouds,  like  curtains  drawn 
To  form  the  gorgeous  canopy 

Of  monarchs  to  their  slumbers  gone ! 

The  sun  went  down, — and,  broad  and  red, 
One  moment,  on  the  burning  wave, 


68  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Rested  his  front  of  fire,  to  shed 
A  glory  round  his  ocean-grave  : 

And  sunset — far  and  gorgeous  hung 
A  banner  from  the  wall  of  heaven — 

A  wave  of  living  glory,  flung 

Along  the  shadowy  verge  of  even. 


Description  of  a  sultry  Summer's  Noon* — 
Carlos  Wilcox. 

A  sultry  noon,  not  in  the  summer's  prime, 
When  all  is  fresh  with  life,  and  youth,  and  bloom, 
But  near  its  close,  when  vegetation  stops, 
And  fruits  mature  stand  ripening  in  the  sun, 
Soothes  and  enervates  with  its  thousand  charms, 
Its  images  of  silence  and  of  rest, 
The  melancholy  mind.     The  fields  are  still ; 
The  husbandman  has  gone  to  his  repast, 
And,  that  partaken,  on  the  coolest  side 
Of  his  abode,  reclines,  in  sweet  repose. 

•  Deep  in  the  shaded  stream  the  cattle  stana, 

The  flocks  beside  the  fence,  with  heads  all  prone, 
And  panting  quick..    The  fields,  for  harvest  ripe, 
.    No  breezes  bend  in  smooth  and  graceful  waves, 
While  with  their  motion,  dim  and  bright  by  turns, 
The  sunshine  seems  to  move  ;  nor  e'en  a  breath 
Brushes  along  the  surface  with  a  shade 
Fleeting  and  thin,  like  that  of  flying  smoke. 
The  slender  stalks  their  heavy  bended  heads     . 
Support  as  motionless  as  oaks  their  tops. 
O'er  all  the  woods  the  topmost  leaves  are  still ; 
E'en  the  wild  poplar  leaves,  that,  pendent  hung 
By  stems  elastic,  quiver  at  a  breath, 
Rest  in  the  general  calm.     The  thistle  down, 
Seen  high  and  thick,  by  gazing  up  beside 

*  How  perfect  is  this  description  of  the  hot  noon  of  a  summer's  day  in  the 
country  !  and  yet  how  simple  and  unstudied  !  Several  of  its  most  expressive 
images  are  entirely  new,  and  the  whole  graphic  comhination  is  original — 
a  quality  very  difficult  to  attain  after  Thomson  and  Cowper.  The  thistle 
alighting  sleepily  on  the  grass,  the  yellow-hammer  mutely  picking  the  seeds, 
the  grasshopper  snapping  his  wings,  and  the  low  singing  of  the  locust — all 
the  images,  indeed,  make  up  a  picture  inimitably  beautiful  and  true  to  na- 
ture.    Ed. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  G9 

Some  shading  object,  in  a  silver  shower 
Plumb  down,  and  slower  than  the  slowest  snow, 
Through  all  the  sleepy  atmosphere  descends ; 
And  where  it  lights,  though  on  the  steepest  roof, 
Or  smallest  spire  of  grass,  remains  unmoved. 
White  as  a  fleece,  as  dense  and  as  distinct 
From  the  resplendent  sky,  a  single  cloud 
On  the  soft  bosom  of  the  air  becalmed, 
Drops  a  lone  shadow  as  distinct  and  still, 
On  the  bare  plain,  or  sunny  mountain's  side ; 
Or  in  the  polished  mirror  of  the  lake, 
In  which  the  deep  reflected  sky  appears 
A  calm,  sublime  immensity  below. 


No  sound  nor  motion  of  a  living  thing 

The  stillness  breaks,  but  such  as  serve  to  soothe, 

Or  cause  the  soul  to  feel  the  stillness  more. 

The  yellow-hammer  by  the  way-side  picks, 

Mutely,  the  thistle's  seed  ;  but  in  her  flight, 

So  smoothly  serpentine,  her  wings  outspread 

To  rise  a  little,  closed  to  fall  as  far, 

Moving  like  sea-fowl  o'er  the  heaving  waves, 

With  each  new  impulse  chimes  a  feeble  note. 

The  russet  grasshopper  at  times  is  heard, 

Snapping  his  many  wings,  as  half  he  flies, 

Half  hovers  in  the  air.     Where  strikes  the  sun, 

With  sultriest  beams,  upon  the  sandy  plain, 

Or  stony  mount,  or  in  the  close,  deep  vale, 

The  harmless  locust  of  this  western  clime, 

At  intervals,  amid  the  leaves  unseen, 

Is  heard  to  sing  with  one  unbroken  sound, 

As  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  beginning  low, 

And  rising  to  the  midst  with  shriller  swell, 

Then  in  low  cadence  dying  all  away. 

Beside  the  stream,  collected  in  a  flock, 

The  noiseless  butterflies,  though  on  the  ground, 

Continue  still  to  wave  their  open  fans 

Powdered  with  gold  ;  while  on  the  jutting  twigs 

The  spindling  insects  that  frequent  the  banks 

Rest,  with  their  thin  transparent  wings  outspread 

As  when  they  fly.     Ofttimes,  though  seldom  seen, 

The  cuckoo,  that  in  summer  haunts  our  groves, 

Is  heard  to  moan,  as  if  at  every  breath 

Panting  aloud.     The  hawk,  in  mid-air  high, 


70  common-place;  hook  of  poetry. 

On  his  broad  pinions  sailing  round  and  round, 
With  not  a  flutter,  or  but  now  and  then, 
As  if  his  trembling  balance  to  regain, 
Utters  a  single  scream,  but  faintly  heard, 
And  all  again  is  still. 


The  Dying  Child. — Christian  Examiner. 

'Tis  dying  !  life  is  yielding  place 

To  that  mysterious  charm, 
Which  spreads  upon  the  troubled  face 

A  fixed,  unchanging  calm, 
That  deepens  as  the  parting  breath 
Is  gently  sinking  into  death. 

A  thoughtful  beauty  rests  the  while 

Upon  its  snowy  brow  ; 
But  those  pale  lips'  could  never  smile 

More  radiantly  than  now  ; 
And  sure  some  heavenly  dreams  begin 
To  dawn  upon  the  soul  within! 

O  that  those  mildly  conscious  lips 

Were  parted  to  reply — 
To  tell  how  death's  severe  eclipse 

Is  passing  from  thine  eye  ; 
For  living  eye  can  never  see 
The  change  that  death  hath  wrought  in  thee. 

Perhaps  thy  sight  is  wandering  far 

Throughout  the  kindled  sky, 
In  tracing  every  infant  star 

Amid  the  flames  on  high  ; — 
Souls  of  the  just,  whose  path  is  bent 
Around  the  glorious  firmament. 

Perhaps  thine  eye  is  gazing  down 

Upon  the  earth  below, 
Rejoicing  to  have  gained  thy  crown, 

And  hurried  from  its  wo 
To  dwell  beneath  the  throne  of  Him, 
Before  whose  glory  heaven  is  dim. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  71 

Thy  life  !  how  cold  it  might  have  been, 

If  days  had  grown  to  years  ! 
How  dark,  how  deeply  stained  with  sin, 

With  weariness  and  tears! 
How  happy  thus  to  sink  to  rest, 
So  early  numbered  with  the  blest ! 

'Tis  well,  then,  that  the  smile  should  lie 

Upon  thy  marble  cheek  : 
It  tells  to  our  inquiring  eye 

What  words  could  never  speak — 
A  revelation  sweetly  given 
Of  all  that  man  can  learn  of  heaven. 


Looking  unto  Jesus. — Christian  Examiner. 

Thou,  who  didst  stoop  below, 

To  drain  the  cup  of  wo, 
Wearing  the  form  of  frail  mortality, — 

Thy  blessed  labors  done, 

Thy  crown  of  victory  won, 
Hast  passed  from  earth — passed  to  thy  home  on  high 

Man  may  no  longer  trace, 

In  thy  celestial  face, 
The  image  of  the  bright,  the  viewless  One  ; 

Nor  may  thy  servants  hear, 

Save  with  faith's  raptured  ear, 
Thy  voice  of  tenderness,  God's  holy  Son ! 

Our  eyes  behold  thee  not, 

Yet  hast  thou  not  forgot 
Those  who  have  placed  their  hope,  their  trust  in  thee  ; 

Before  thy  Father's  face 

Thou  hast  prepared  a  place, 
That  where  thou  art,  there  they  may  also  be. 

It  was  no  path  of  flowers, 

Through  this  dark  world  of  ours, 
Beloved  of  the  Father,  thou  didst  tread; 

And  shall  we,  in  dismay, 

Shrink  from  the  narrow  way, 
When  clouds  and  darkness  are  around  it  spread  ? 


72  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

O  thou,  who  art  our  life, 

Be  with  us  through  the  strife  ! 
Was  not  thy  head  by  earth's  fierce  tempests  bowed  ? 

Raise  thou  our  eyes  above, 

To  see  a  Father's  love 
Beam,  like  the  bow  of  promise,  through  the  cloud. 

Even  through  the  awful  gloom, 

Which  hovers  o'er  the  tomb, 
That  light  of  love  our  guiding  star  shall  be ; 

Our  spirits  shall  not  dread 

The  shadowy  way  to  tread, 
Friend,  Guardian,  Saviour,  which  doth  lead  to  thee. 


Scene  from  Hqdad. — Hillhouse. 

The  garden  of  Absalom's  house  on  Mount  Zion,  near  the  palace,  over- 
looking the  city.     Tamar  sitting  by  a  fountain. 

Tamar.     How  aromatic  evening  grows !     The  flowers 
And  spicy  shrubs  exhale  like  onycha ; 
Spikenard  and  henna  emulate  in  sweets. 
Blest  hour  !  which  He,  who  fashioned  it  so  fair, 
So  softly  glowing,  so  contemplative,    - 
Hath  set,  and  sanctified  to  look  on  man. 
And,  lo  !  the  smoke  of  evening  sacrifice 
Ascends  from  out  the  tabernacle.     Heaven 
Accept  the  expiation,  and  forgive 
This  day's  offences  ! — Ha  !  the  wonted  strain, 
Precursor  of  his  coming! — Whence  can  this — 
It  seems  to  flow  from  some  unearthly  hand — 
Enter  Hadad. 

Hadad.     Does  beauteous  Tamar  view,  in  this  clear  fount, 
Herself,  or  heaven  ? 

Tarn.     Nay,  Hadad,  tell  me  whence 
Those  sad,  mysterious  sounds. 

Had.     What  sounds,  dear  princess  ? 

Tarn.     Surely,  thou  know'st ;  and  now  I  almost  think 
Some  spiritual  creature  waits  on  thee. 

Had.     I  heard  no  sounds,  but  such  as  evening  sends 
Up  from  the  city  to  these  quiet  shades ; 
A  blended  murmur  sweetly  harmonizing 
With  flowing  fountains,  feathered  minstrelsy, 
And  voices  from  the  hills. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  73 

Tarn.     The  sounds  I  mean 
Floated  like  mournful  music  round  my  head, 
From  unseen  fingers. 

Had.     When  ? 

Tarn.     Now,  as  thou  earnest. 

Had.     'Tis  but  thy  fancy,  wrought 
To  ecstasy  ;  or  else  thy  grandsire's  harp 
Resounding  from  his  tower  at  eventide. 
I've  lingered  to  enjoy  its  solemn  tones, 
Till  the  broad  moon,  that  rose  o'er  Olivet, 
Stood  listening  in  the  zenith ;  yea,  have  deemed 
Viols  and  heavenly  voices  answered  him. 

Tain.     But  these — 

Had.     Were  we  in  Syria,  I  might  say 
The  naiad  of  the  fount,  or  some  sweet  nymph, 
The  goddess  of  these  shades,  rejoiced  in  thee, 
And  gave  thee  salutations  ;  but  I  fear 
Judah  would  call  me  infidel  to  Moses. 

Tarn.     How  like  my  fancy  !  When  these  strains  precede 
Thy  steps,  as  oft  they  do,  I  love  to  think 
Some  gentle  being,  who  delights  in  us, 
Is  hovering  near,  and  warns  me  of  thy  coming ; 
But  they  are  dirge-like. 

Had.     Youthful  fantasy, 
Attuned  to  sadness,  makes  them  seem  so,  lady. 
So  evening's  charming  voices,  welcomed  ever, 
As  signs  of  rest  and  peace  ; — the  watchman's  call, 
The  closing  gates,  the  Levite's  mellow  trump 
Announcing  the  returning  moon,  the  pipe 
Of  swains,  the  bleat,  the  bark,  the  housing-bell, 
Send  melancholy  to  a  drooping  soul. 

Tarn.     But  how  delicious  are  the  pensive  dreams 
That  steal  upon  the  fancy  at  their  call ! 

Had.     Delicious  to  behold  the  world  at  rest. 
Meek  Labor  wipes  his  brow,  and  intermits 
The  curse,  to  clasp  the  younglings  of  his  cot; 
Herdsmen  and  shepherds  fold  their  flocks — and,  hark  f 
What  merry  strains  they  send  from  Olivet ! 
The  jar  of  life  is  still ;  the  city  speaks 
In  gentle  murmurs ;  voices  chime  with  lutes 
Waked  in  the  streets  and  gardens  ;  loving  pairs 
Eye  the  red  west  in  one  another's  arms  ; 
And  nature,  breathing  dew  and  fragrance,  yields 
A  glimpse  of  happiness,  which  He,  who  formed 
Earth  and  the  stars,  had  power  to  make  eternal. 
7 


74  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Tarn.     Ah,  Hadad,  meanest  thou  to  reproach  the  Friend 
Who  gave  so  much,  because  he  gave  not  all  ? 

Had.     Perfect  benevolence,  methinks,  had  willed 
Unceasing  happiness,  and  peace,  and  joy ; 
Filled  the  whole  universe  of  human  hearts 
With  pleasure,  like  a  flowing  spring  of  life. 

Tarn.     Our  Prophet  teaches  so,  till  man  rebelled. 

Had.     Mighty  rebellion  !  Had  he  'leagured  heaven 
With  beings  powerful,  numberless,  and  dreadful* 
Strong  as  the  enginery  that  rocks  the  world 
When  all  its  pillars  tremble  ;  mixed  the  fires 
Of  onset  with  annihilating  bolts 
Defensive  volleyed  from  the  throne  ;  this,  this 
Had  been  rebellion  worthy  of  the  name, 
Worthy  of  punishment.     But  what  did  man  ? 
Tasted  an  apple  !  and  the  fragile  scene, 
Eden,  and  innocence,  and  human  bliss, 
The  nectar-flowing  streams,  life-giving  fruits, 
Celestial  shades,  and  amaranthine  flowers, 
Vanish  ;  and  sorpow,  toil,  and  pain,  and  death, 
Cleave  to  him  by  an  everlasting  curse. 

Tarn.     Ah  !  talk  not  thus. 
'   Had.     Is  this  benevolence  ? — 
Nay,  loveliest,  these  things  sometimes  trouble  me  ; 
For  I  was  tutored  in  a-brighter  faith. 
Our  Syrians  deem  each  lucid  fount,  and  stream, 
Forest,  and  mountain,  glade,  and  bosky  dell, 
Peopled  with  kind  divinities,  the  friends 
Of  man,  a  spiritual  race,  allied 
To  him  by  many  sympathies,  who  seek 
His  happiness,  inspire  him  with  gay  thoughts, 
Cool  with  their  waves,  and  fan  him  with  their  airs. 
O'er  them,  the  Spirit  of  the  Universe, 
Or  Soul  of  Nature,  circumfuses  all 
With  mild,  benevolent,  and  sun-like  radiance ; 
Pervading,  warming,  vivifying  earth, 
As  spirit  does  the  body,  till  green  herbs, 
And  beauteous  flowers,  and  branchy  cedars,  rise ; 
And  shooting  stellar  influence  through  her  caves, 
Whence  minerals  and  gems  imbibe  their  lustre. 

Tarn.     Dreams,  Hadad,  empty  dreams. 

Had.     These  deities 
They  invocate  with  cheerful,  gentle  rites, 
Hang  garlands  on  their  altars,  heap  their  shrines 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  75 

With  Nature's  bounties,  fruits,  and  fragrant  flowers. 
Not  like  yon  gory  mount  that  ever  reeks — 

Tarn.     Cast  not  reproach  upon  the  holy  altar. 

Had.     Nay,  sweet. — Having  enjoyed  all  pleasures  here 
That  Nature  prompts,  but  chiefly  blissful  love, 
At  death,  the  happy  Syrian  maiden  deems 
Her  immaterial  flies  into  the  fields, 
Or  circumambient  clouds,  or  crystal  brooks, 
And  dwells,  a  Deity,  with  those  she  worshipped, 
Till  time,  or  fate,  return  her  in  its  course 
To  quaff,  once  more,  the  cup  of  human  joy. 

Tarn.     But  thou  believ'st  not  this. 

Had.     I  almost  wish 
Thou  didst ;  for  I  have  feared,  my  gentle  Tamar, 
Thy  spirit  is  too  tender  for  a  law 
Announced  in  terrors,  coupled  with  the  threats 
Of  an  inflexible  and  dreadful  Being, 
Whose  word  annihilates,  whose  awful  voice 
Thunders  the  doom  of  nations,  who  can  check 
The  sun  in  heaven,  and  shake  the  loosened  stars, 
Like  wind-tossed  fruit,  to  earth,  whose  fiery  step 
The  earthquake  follows,  whose  tempestuous  breath 
Divides  the  sea,  whose  anger  never  dies, 
Never  remits,  but  everlasting  burns, 
Burns  unextinguished  in  the  deeps  of  hell. 
Jealous,  implacable — 

Tarn.     Peace  !  impious !  peace ! 

Had.     Ha !  says  not  Moses  so  ? 
The  Lord  is  jealous. 

Tarn.     Jealous  of  our  faith, 
Our  love,  our  true  obedience,  justly  his  ; 
And  a  poor  recompense  for  all  his  favors. 
Implacable  he  is  not ;  contrite  man 
Ne'er  found  him  so. 

Had.     But  others  have, 
If  oracles  be  true. 

Tarn.     Little  we  know 
Of  them  ;  and  nothing  of  their  dire  offence. 

Had.     I  meant  not  to  displease,  love  ;  but  my  soul 
Sometimes  revolts,  because  I  think  thy  nature 
Shudders  at  him  and  yonder  bloody  rites. 
How  dreadful !  when  the  world  awakes  to  light, 
And  life,  and  gladness,  and  the  jocund  tide 
Bounds  in  the  veins  of  every  happy  creature, 
Morning  is  ushered  by  a  murdered  victim, 


76  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Whose  wasting  members  reek  upon  the  air, 
Polluting  the  pure  firmament ;  the  shades 
Of  evening  scent  of  death  ;  almost,  the  shrine 
O'ershadowed  by  the  holy  cherubim; 
And  where  the  clotted  current  from  the  altar 
Mixes  with  Kedron,  all  its  waves  are  gore. 
Nay,  nay,  I  grieve  thee — 'tis  not  for  myself, 
But  that  I  fear  these  gloomy  things  oppress 
Thy  soul,  and  cloud  its  native  sunshine. 

Tarn,    (in  tears,  clasping  her  hands.) 
Witness,  ye  heavens  !  Eternal  Father,  witness ! 
Blest  God  of  Jacob  !  Maker  !  Friend !  Preserver ! 
That,  with  my  heart,  my  undivided  soul, 
I  love,  adore,  and  praise  thy  glorious  name 
Confess  thee  Lord  of  all,  believe  thy  laws 
Wise,  just,  and  merciful,  as  they  are  true. 

0  Hadad,  Hadad  !  you  misconstrue  much 
The  sadness  that  usurps  me :  'tis  for  thee 

1  grieve — for  hopes  that  fade — for  your  lost  soul, 
And  my  lost  happiness. 

Had.     0  say  not  so, 
Beloved  princess.     Why  distrust  my  faith  ? 
*   Tarn.     Thou  know'st,  alas !  my  weakness ;  but  remember, 
I  never,  never  will  be  thine,  although 
The  feast,  the  blessing-,  and  the  song  were  past, 
Though  Absalom  and  David  called  me  bride, 
Till  sure  thou  own'st,  with  truth  and  love  sincere, 
The  Lord  Jehovah. 


Roman  Catholic  Chaunt.    From  "  Percy's  Masque.' 

HlLLHOUSE. 


O,  holy  Virgin,  call  thy  child ; 

Her  spirit  longs  to  be  with  thee  ; 
For,  threatening,  lower  those  skies  so  mild, 

Whose  faithless  day-star  dawned  for  me. 

From  tears  released  to  speedy  rest, 

From  youthful  dreams  which  all  beguiled, 

To  quiet  slumber  on  thy  breast, 
O,  holy  Virgin,  call  thy  child. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Joy  from  my  darkling  soul  is  fled, 

And  haggard  phantoms  haunt  me  wild  ; 

Despair  assails,  and  Hope  is  dead  : 
O,  holy  Virgin,  call  thy  child. 


Song. — From  the  Talisman. 

When  the  firmament  quivers  with  daylight's  young  beam, 
And  the  woodlands,  awaking,  burst  into  a  hymn, 

And  the  glow  of  the  sky  blazes  back  from  the  stream, — 
How  the  bright  ones  of  heaven  in  the  brightness  grow  dim ! 

Oh,  us  sad,  in  that  moment  of  glory  and  song, 
To  see,  while  the  hill-tops  are  waiting  the  sun, 

The  glittering  host,  that  kept  watch  all  night  long 
O'er  Love  and  o'er  Slumber,  go  out  one  by  one ; — 

Till  the  circle  of  ether,  deep,  rosy  and  vast, 

Scarce  glimmers  with  one  of  the  train  that  were  there  ; 

And  their  leader,  the  day-star,  the  brightest  and  last, 
Twinkles  faintly,  and  fades  in  that  desert  of  air. 

Thus  Oblivion,  from  midst  of  whose  shadow  we  came, 
Steals  o'er  us  again  when  life's  moment  is  gone  ; 

And  the  crowd  of  bright  names  in  the  heaven  of  fame 
Grow  pale  and  are  quenched  as  the  years  hasten  on. 

Let  them  fade — but  we'll  pray  that  the  age,  in  whose  flight 
Of  ourselves  and  our  friends  the  remembrance  shall  die, 

May  rise  o'er  the  world,  with  the  gladness  and  light 
Of  the  dawn  that  effaces  the  stars  from  the  sky. 


September. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

The  sultry  summer  past,  September  comes, 
Soft  twilight  of  the  slow-declining  year; — 
All  mildness,  soothing  loneliness  and  peace  ; 
The  fading  season  ere  the  falling  come, 
More  sober  than  the  buxom  blooming  May, 
And  therefore  less  the  favorite  of  the  world, 
But  dearest  month  of  all  to  pensive  minds. 
7* 


78  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    FOETRY. 

Tis  now  far  spent ;  and  the  meridian  sun, 

Most  sweetly  smiling  with  attempered  beams, 

Sheds  gently  down  a  mild  and  grateful  warmth 

Beneath  its  yellow  lustre,  groves  and  woods, 

Checkered  by  one  night's  frost  with  various  hues, 

While  yet  no  wind  has  swept  a  leaf  away, 

Shine  doubly  rich.     It  were  a  sad  delight 

Down  the  smooth  stream  to  glide,  and  see  it  tinged 

Upon  each  brink  with  all  the  gorgeous  hues, 

The  yellow,  red,  or  purple  of  the  trees, 

That,  singly,  or  in  tufts,  or  forests  thick, 

Adorn  the  shores  ;  to  see,  perhaps,  the  side 

Of  some  high  mount  reflected  far  below 

With  its  bright  colors,  intermixed  with  spots 

Of  darker  green.     Yes,  it  were  sweetly  sad 

To  wander  in  the  open  fields,  and  hear, 

E'en  at  this  hour,  the  noon-day  hardly  past, 

The  lulling  insects  of  the  summer's  night ; 

To  hear,'  where  lately  buzzing  swarms  were  heard, 

A  lonely  bee  long  roving  here  and  there 

To  find  a  single  flower,  but  all  in  vain ; 

Then,  rising  quick,  and  with  a  louder  hum, 

In  widening  circles  round  and  round  his  head, 

Straight  by  the  listener  flying  clear  away, 

As  if  to  bid  the  fields  a  last  adieu  ; 

To  hear,  within  the  woodland's  sunny  side, 

Late  full  of  music,  nothing,  save,  perhaps, 

The  sound  of  nut-shells,  by  the  squirrel  dropped 

From  some  tall  beech,  fast  falling  through  the  leaves. 


On  the  Loss  of  Professor  Fisher. — Brain  ard. 

The  breath  of  air,  that  stirs  the  harp's  soft  string, 

Floats  on  to  join  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm ; 
The  drops  of  dew,  exhaled  from  flowers  of  spring, 

Rise,  and  assume  the  tempest's  threatening  form;. 
The  first  mild  beam  of  morning's  glorious  sun, 

Ere  night,  is  sporting  in  the  lightning's  flash ; 
And  the  smooth  stream,  that  flows  in  quiet  on, 

Moves  but  to  aid  the  overwhelming  dash 
That  wave  and  wind  can  muster,  when  the  might 

Of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  sky  unite. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  79 

So  science  whispered  in  thy  charmed  ear, 

And  radiant  learning  beckoned  thee  away. 
The  breeze  was  music  to  thee,  and  the  clear 

Beam  of  thy  morning  promised  a  bright  day. 
And  they  have  wrecked  thee  ! — But  there  is  a  shore 

Where  storms  are  hushed,  where  tempests  never  rage ; 
Where  angry  skies  and  blackening  seas  no  more 

With  gusty  strength  their  roaring  warfare  wage. 
By  thee  its  peaceful  margent  shall  be  trod — 

Thy  home  is  heaven,  and  thy  Friend  is  God. 


Idle  Words. — Anonymous. 

J  have  a  high  sense  of  the  virtue  and  dignity  of  the  female  character  ;  and 
would  not,  by  any  means,  be  thought  to  attribute  to  the  ladies  emphatically, 
the  fault  here  spoken  of.  But  I  have  remarked  it  in  some  of  my  friends, 
who,  in  all  but  this,  were  among  the  loveliest  of  their  sex.  In  such,  the 
blemish  is  more  distinct  and  striking,  because  so  strongly  contrasted  with 
the  superior  delicacy  and  loveliness  of  their  natures. 


V 


My  God  !"  the  beauty  oft  exclaimed, 
With  deep  impassioned  tone — 
But  not  in  humble  prayer  she  named 
The  High  and  Holy  One  ! 


'Twas  not  upon  the  bended  knee, 
With  soul  upraised  to  heaven, 

Pleading,  with  heartfelt  agony, 
That  she  might  be  forgiven. 

'Twas  not  in  heavenly  strains  to  raise 

To  the  great  Source  of  good 
Her  daily  offering  of  praise, 

Her  song  of  gratitude. 

But  in  the  gay  and  thoughtless  crowd, 

And  in  the  festive  hall, 
'Mid  scenes  of  mirth  and  mockery  proud, 

She  named  the  Lord  of  All. 

She  called  upon  that  awful  name, 
When  laughter  loudest  rang — 

Or  when  the  flush  of  triumph  came — 
Or  disappointment's  pang ! 


80  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  idlest  thing  that  flattery  knew, 

The  most  unmeaning  jest, 
From  those  sweet  lips  profanely  drew 

Names  of  the  Holiest ! 

I  thought — How  sweet  that  voice  would  be, 
Breathing  this  prayer  to  heaven — 

"  My  God,  I  worship  only  thee  ; 
O,  be  my  sins  forgiven!" 


He  faioweth  our  Frame,  He  remembereth  we  are  Dust.- 

Dana. 

Thou,  who  didst  form  us  with  mysterious  powers, 
Didst  give  a  conscious  soul,  and  call  it  ours, 
'Tis  thou  alone  who  know'st  the  strife  within ; 
Thou'lt  kincfly  judge,< nor  name  each  weakness  sin. 
Thou  art  not  man,  who  only  sees  in  part, 
Yet  deals  unsparing  with  a  brother's  heart ; 
For  thou  look'st  in  upon  the  struggling  throng 
That  war — the  good  with  ill — the  weak  with  strong. 
And  those  thy  hand  hath  wrought  of  finer  frame, 
When  grief  o'erthrows  the  mind,  thou  wilt  not  blame. 
— "  It  is  enough  !"  thou'lt  say,  and  pity  show  ; 
"  Thy  pain  shall  turn  to  joy,  thou  child  of  wo  ! — 
Thy  heart  find  rest — thy  dark  mind  clear  away, 
And  thou  sit  in  the  peace  of  heaven's  calm  day !" 


Immortality. — Dana.* 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then,  Love  ? 
And  doth  death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 
Commingling  spirits  ?  Are  thoughts  that  know  no  bounds, 
But,  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  searching  out 
The  Eternal  Mind — the  Father  of  all  thought — 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb  ? — 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  the  illuminate  realms 

*  We  scarcely  know  where,  in  the  English  language,  we  could  point  out  a 
finer  extract  than  this, — of  the  same  character.  It  has  a  softened  grandeur 
worthy  of  the  subject  j  especially  in  the  noble  paragraph  commencing  "  O, 
listen,  man  !" — Ed. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  81 

Of  uncreated  light  have  visited  and  lived  ? — 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendor  of  that  throne, 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand  the  vail  of  flesh 
Lifting,  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  revealed 
In  glory  ? — throne,  before  which,  even  now, 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down, 
Rejoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed  ? — 
Souls  that  Thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful,  unseen  Presence — are  they  quenched, 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not ;  as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  ? 

And  with  our  frames  do  perish  all  our  loves  ? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root  and  put  forth  buds, 
And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair  unconscious  flowers  ? 
Are  thoughts  and  passions  that  to  the  tongue  give  speech, 
And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies, — 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance — 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents  ? — no  more  ? — 
To  live  in  it,  and  when  that  dies,  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  flame  ? 

O,  listen,  man ! 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls  :  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality  : 
Thick  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
O,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits ;  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air !     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight; 
'Tis  floating  'midst  day's  setting  glories ;  Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  : 
Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 


82  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 
The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


The  mysterious  Music  of  Ocean. — Walsh's  National, 
Gazette. 

"And  the  people  of  this  place  say,  that,  at  certain  seasons,  beautiful  souuds 
are  heard  from  the  ocean." — Mavar'a  Voyages. 

Lonely  and  wild  it  rose, 
That  strain  of  solemn  music  from  the  sea, 
As  though  the  bright  air  trembled  to  disclose 

An  ocean  mystery. 

Again  a  low,  sweet  tone, 
Fainting  in  murmurs  on  the  listening  day, 
Just  bade  the  excited  thought  its  presence  own, 

Then  died  away. 

Once  more  the  gush  of  sound, 
Struggling  and  swelling  from  the  heaving  plain, 
Thrilled  a  rich  peal  triumphantly  around. 

And  fled  again. 

O  boundless  deep  !   we  know 
Thou  hast  strange  wonders  in  thy  gloom  concealed, 
Gems,  flashing  gems,  from  whose  unearthly  glow 

Sunlight  is  sealed. 

And  an  eternal  spring 
Showers  her  rich  colors  with  unsparing  hand, 
Where  coral  trees  their  graceful  branches  fling 

O'er  golden  sand. 

But  tell,  0  restless  main  ! 
Who  are  the  dwellers  in  thy  world  beneath, 
That  thus  the  watery  realm  cannot  contain 

The  joy  they  breathe  ? 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  83 

Emblem  of  glorious  might! 
Are  thy  wild  children  like  thyself  arrayed, 
Strong  in  immortal  and  unchecked  delight, 

Which  cannot  fade  ? 

Or  to  mankind  allied, 
Toiling  with  wo,  and  passion's  fiery  sting, 
Like  their  own  home,  where  storms  or  peace  preside, 

As  the  winds  bring  ? 

Alas  for  human  thought ! 
How  does  it  flee  existence,  worn  and  old, 
To  win  companionship  with  beings  wrought 

Of  liner  mould ! 

'Tis  vain  the  reckless  waves 
Join  with  loud  revel  the  dim  ages  flown, 
But  keep  each  secret  of  their  hidden  caves 

Dark  and  unknown. 


Summer  Wind. — Bryant. 

It  is  a  sultry  day ;  the  sun  has  drank 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass ; 
There  is  no  rustHng  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors;  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  tierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
W^ere  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains— their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether, — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.     For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 


84  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming.     Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
O  come,  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now, 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  come9  ! 
Lo  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.     He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance  ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds  and  rustling  of  young  boughs," 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath  ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet ;  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves",  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


Summer  Evening  Lightning. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

Far  off  and  low 
In  the  horizon,  from  a  sultry  cloud, 
Where  sleeps  in  embryo  the  midnight  storm, 
The  silent  lightning  gleams  in  fitful  sheets, 
Illumes  the  solid  mass,  revealing  thus 
Its  darker  fragments,  and  its  ragged  verge ; 
Or  if  the  bolder  fancy  so  conceive 
Of  its  fantastic  forms,  revealing  thus 
Its  gloomy  caverns,  rugged  sides  and  tops 
With  beetling  cliffs  grotesque.     But  not  so  bright 
The  distant  flashes  gleam  as  to  efface 
The  window's  image  on  the  floor  impressed, 
By  the  dim  crescent ;  or  outshines  the  light 
Cast  from  the  room  upon  the  trees  hard  by, 
If  haply,  to  illume  a  moonless  night, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  85 

The  lighted  taper  shine  ;  though  lit  in  vain 
To  waste  away  unused,  and  from  abroad 
Distinctly  through  the  open  window  seen, 
Lone,  pale,  and  still  as  a  sepulchral  lamp. 


Spring. — N.  P.  Willis.* 

The  Spring  is  here — the  delicate-footed  May, 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers  ; 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 

Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours — 

A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 

Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods ; 

And  nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 
Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods. 

Yet,  even  there,  a  restless  thought  will  steal, 

To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 

Strange,  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon, 
The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet, 

The  turning  to  the  light  of  leaves  in  June, 
And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet — 

Strange — that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There's  no  contentment,  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream ; 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss, 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream  ; 

Bird-like,  the  prisoned  soul  will  lift  its  eye 

And  sing — till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 


To  Seneca  Lake. — Percival. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 

*  This  is  a  beautiful  piece  of  poetry — more  exquisitely  finished  than  any 
of  Mr.  Willis's  poetry  which  we  have  seen.  Even  a  prejudiced  mind  (and 
there  seem  to  be  many  such)  cannot  but  admire  it. — Ed. 


86  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 

And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north  wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side  ! 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheej  of  silver  spreads  below, 

And  swift  she  cuts,'  at  highest  noon, 
Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 
O !  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 

When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 
And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er. 


Mount  Washington  ;  the  loftiest  Peak  of  the  White 
Mountains,  J\T.  H. — G.  Mellen. 

Mount  of  the  clouds,  on  whose  Olympian  height 
The  tall  rocks  brighten  in  the  ether  air, 
And  spirits  from  the  skies  come  down  at  night, 
To  chant  immortal  songs  to  Freedom  there ! 
Thine  is  the  rock  of  other  regions  ;  where 
The  world  of  life  which  blooms  so  far  below 
Sweeps  a  wide  waste  :  no  gladdening  scenes  appear, 
Save  where,  with  silvery  flash,  the  waters  flow 
Beneath  the  far  off  mountain,  distant,  calm,  and  slow. 

Thine  is  the  summit  where  the  clouds  repose, 
Or,  eddying  wildly,  round  thy  cliffs  are  borne ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  87 

When  Tempest  mounts  his  rushing  car,  and  throws 
His  billowy  mist  amid  the  thunder's  home  ! 
Far  down  the  deep  ravines  the  whirlwinds  come, 
And  bow  the  forests  as  they  sweep  along; 
While,  roaring  deeply  from  their  rocky  womb, 
The  storms  come  forth — and,  hurrying  darkly  on, 
Amid  the  echoing  peaks,  the  revelry  prolong ! 

And,  when  the  tumult  of  the  air  is  fled, 
And  quenched  in  silence  all  the  tempest  flame, 
There  come  the  dim  forms  of  the  mighty  dead, 
Around  the  steep  which  bears  the  hero's  name. 
The  stars  look  down  upon  them — and  the  same 
Pale  orb  that  glistens  o'er  his  distant  grave, 
Gleams  on  the  summit  that  enshrines  his  fame, 
And  lights  the  cold  tear  of  the  glorious  brave — 
The  richest,  purest  tear,  that  memory  ever  gave ! 

Mount  of  the  clouds,  when  winter  round  thee  throws 
The  hoary  mantle  of  the  dying  year, 
Sublime,  amid  thy  canopy  of  snows, 
Thy  towers  in  bright  magnificence  appear ! 
'Tis  then  we  view  thee  with  a  chilling  fear 
Till  summer  robes  thee  in  her  tints  of  blue ; 
When,  lo !  in  softened  grandeur,  far,  yet  clear, 
Thy  battlements  stand  clothed  in  heaven's  own  hue, 
To  swell  as  Freedom's  home  on  man's  unbounded  view  ! 


To  the  dying  Year. — J.  G.  Whittier. 

And  thou,  gray  voyager  to  the  breezeless  sea 

Of  infinite  Oblivion,  speed  thou  on ! 
Another  gift  of  Time  succeedeth  thee, 

Fresh  from  the  hand  of  God  !  for  thou  hast  done 

The  errand  of  thy  destiny,  and  none 
May  dream  of  thy  returning.     Go !  and  bear 

Mortality's  frail  records  to  thy  cold, 
Eternal  prison-house  ; — the  midnight  prayer 
Of  suffering  bosoms,  and  the  fevered  care 

Of  worldly  hearts;  the  miser's  dream  of  gold  ; 
Ambition's  grasp  at  greatness ;  the  quenched  light 

Of  broken  spirits;  the  forgiven  wrong, 

And  the  abiding  curse.     Ay,  bear  along 


88  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

These  wrecks  of  thine  own  making.     Lo !  thy  knell 
Gathers  upon  the  windy  breath  of  night, 
Its  last  and  faintest  echo !     Fare  thee  well! 


The  Captain.    A  Fragment* — Brainard. 

Solemn  he  paced  upon  that  schooner's  deck, 
And  muttered  of  his  hardships  : — "  I  have  been 
Where  the  wild  will  of  Mississippi's  tide 
Has  dashed  me  on  the  sawyer ;  I  have  sailed 
In  the  thick  night,  along  the  wave -washed  edge 
Of  ice,  in  acres,  by  the  pitiless  coast 
Of  Labrador ;  and  I  have  scraped  my  keel 
O'er  coral  rocks  in  Madagascar  seas ; 
And  often,  in  my  cold  and  midnight  watch, 
Have  heard  the  warning  voice  of  the  lee  shore 
Speaking  in  breakers !  Ay,  and  I  have  seen 
The  whale  and  sword-fish  fight  beneath  my  bows ; 
And,  when  they  made  the  deep  boil  like  a  pot, 
Have  swung  into  its  vortex  ;   and  I  know 
To  cord  my  vessel  with  a  sailor's  skill, 
And  brave  such  dangers  with  a  sailor's  heart ; — 
But  never  yet,  upon  the  stormy  wave, 
Or  where  the  river  mixes  with  the  main, 
Or  in  the  chafing  anchorage  of  the  bay, 
In  all  my  rough  experience  of  harm, 
Met  I — a  Methodist  meeting-house  ! 
*  *  *  * 

Cat-head,  or  beam,  or  davit  has  it  none, 
Starboard  nor  larboard,  gunwale,  stem  nor  stern ! 
It  comes  in  such  a  "  questionable  shape," 
I  cannot  even  speak  it !     Up  jib,  Josey, 
And  make  for  Bridgeport !  There,  where  Stratford  Point, 
Long  Beach,  Fairweather  Island,  and  the  buoy, 
Are  safe  from  such  encounters,  we'll  protest! 
And  Yankee  legends  long  shall  tell  the  tale, 
That  once  a  Charleston  schooner  was  beset, 
Riding  at  anchor,  by  a  meeting-house  ! 

*The  Bridgeport  paper  of  March,  1823,  said  :  "  Arrived,  schooner  Fame, 
from  Charleston,  via  New  London.  While  at  anchor  in  that  harbor,  dur- 
ing the  rain  storm  on  Thursday  evening  last,  the  Fame  was  run  foul  of  by 
the  wreck  of  the  Methodist  meeting-house  from  Norwich,  which  was  carried 
away  in  the  late  freshet." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  89 


"  They  that  seek  me  early  shall  find  me." — Columbian 
Star. 

Come,  while  the  blossoms  of  thy  years  are  brightest, 

Thou  youthful  wanderer  in  a  flowery  maze  ; 
Come,  while  the  restless  heart  is  bounding  lightest, 

And  joy's  pure  sunbeams  tremble  in  thy  ways ; 
Come,  while  sweet  thoughts,  like  summer  buds  unfolding, 

Waken  rich  feelings  in  the  careless  breast — 
While  yet  thy  hand  the  ephemeral  wreath  is  holding, 

Come,  and  secure  interminable  rest. 

Soon  will  the  freshness  of  thy  days  be  over, 

And  thy  free  buoyancy  of  soul  be  flown ; 
Pleasure  will  fold  her  wing,  and  friend  and  lover 

Will  to  the  embraces  of  the  worm  have  gone ; 
Those  who  now  bless  thee  will  have  passed  for  ever ; 

Their  looks  of  kindness  will  be  lost  to  thee  ; 
Thou  wilt  need  balm  to  heal  thy  spirit's  fever, 

As  thy  sick  heart  broods  over  years  to  be ! 

Come,  while  the  morning  of  thy  life  is  glowing, 

Ere  the  dim  phantoms  thou  art  chasing  die — 
Ere  the  gay  spell,  which  earth  is  round  thee  throwing, 

Fades  like  the  crimson  from  a  sunset  sky. 
Life  is  but  shadows,  save  a  promise  given, 

Which  lights  up  sorrow  with  a  fadeless  ray : 
O,  touch  the  sceptre  ! — with  a  hope  in  heaven — 

Come,  turn  thy  spirit  from  the  world  away. 

Then  will  the  crosses  of  this  brief  existence 

Seem  airy  nothings  to  thine  ardent  soul, 
And,  shining  brightly  in  the  forward  distance, 

Will  of  thy  patient  race  appear  the  goal ; 
Home  of  the  weary !  where,  in  peace  reposing, 

The  spirit  lingers  in  unclouded  bliss  : 
Though  o'er  its  dust  the  curtained  grave  is  closing, 

Who  would  not  early  choose  a  lot  like  this  ? 
8*. 


90        COMMOX-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY. 


A  Son's  Farewell  to  his  Mother,  and  Departure  from  Home. 
— Connecticut  Observer. 

Mother — I  leave  thy  dwelling, 

Thy  counsel  and  thy  care ; 
With  grief  my  heart  is  swelling 

No  more  in  them  to  share  ; 
Nor  hear  that  sweet  voice  speaking 

When  hours  of  joy  run  high, 
Nor  meet  that  mild  eye  seeking 

When  sorrow's  touch  comes  nigh. 

Mother — I  leave  thy  dwelling, 

And  the  sweet  hour  of  prayer ; 
With  grief  my  heart  is  swelling 

No  more  to  meet  thee  there. 
Thy  faith  and  fervor,  pleading 

In  unspent  tones  of  love, 
Perchance  my  soul  are  leading 

To  better  hopes  above. 

Mother — I  leave  thy  dwelling ; 

Oh  !  shall  it  be  for  ever  ? 
With  grief-my  heart  is  swelling, 

From  thee — from  thee — to  sever. 
These  arms,  that  now  enfold  me 

So  closely  to  thy  heart, 
These  eyes,  that  now  behold  me, 

From  all — from  all — I  part. 


Hushed  is  the  Voice  of  Judah's  Mirth.    A  Sacred  Melody. — 
From  the  Port-Folio.* 

11  In  Rama  was  there  a  voice  heard,  lamentation,  and  weeping,  and  great 
mourning  ;  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted, 
because  they  are  not."    St.  Matt.  ii.  18. 

Hushed  is  the  voice  of  Judah's  mirth  ; 
And  Judah's  minstrels,  too,  are  gone  ; 

*  We  are  not  sensible  that  this  piece  is  inferior,  in  any  respect  whatever, 
to  Moore's  celebrated  and  beautiful  Sacred  Melodies.  We  lately  saw  it 
quoted,  and  wrongly  ascribed   to  the  English  poet.    It   was  written  in 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  91 

And  harps  that  told  Messiah's  birth 
Are  hung  on  heaven's  eternal  throne. 

Fled  is  the  bright  and  shining  throng 

That  swelled  on  earth  the  welcome  strain, 

And  lost  in  air  the  choral  song 

That  floated  wild  on  David's  plain : — 

For  dark  and  sad  is  Bethlehem's  fate  ; 

Her  valleys  gush  with  human  blood ; 
Despair  sits  mourning  at  her  gate, 

And  Murder  stalks  in  frantic  mood. 

At  morn,  the  mother's  heart  was  light, 

Her  infant  bloomed  upon  her  breast ; 
At  eve,  'twas  pale  and  withered  quite, 

And  gone  to  its  eternal  rest. 

Weep  on,  ye  childless  mothers,  weep ; 

Your  babes  are  hushed  in  one  cold  grave  ; 
In  Jordan's  streams  their  spirits  sleep, 

Their  blood  is  mingled  with  the  wave. 


Extract  from  a  Poem  delivered  at  the  Departure  of  the 
Senior  Class  of  Yale  College,  in  1826. — N.  P.  Willis. 

We  shall  go  forth  together.     There  will  come 
Alike  the  day  of  trial  unto  all, 
And  the  rude  world  will  buffet  us  alike. 
Temptation  hath  a  music  for  all  ears ; 
And  mad  ambition  trumpeteth  to  all ; 
And  the  ungovernable  thought  within 
Will  be  in  every  bosom  eloquent ; — 
But,  when  the  silence  and  the  calm  come  on, 
And  the  high  seal  of  character  is  set, 
We  shall  not  all  be  similar.     The  scale 
Of  being  is  a  graduated  thing ; 
And  deeper  than  the  vanities  of  power, 
Or  the  vain  pomp  of  glory,  there  is  writ 
Gradation,  in  its  hidden  characters. 

Charleston,  South  Carolina,  and  published  in  the  Port-Folio  of  1818. 
While  under  Mr.  Dennie's  care,  the  pages  of  this  journal  were  enriched 
with  many  fine  articles,  both  in  poetry  and  prose. — Ed. 


92  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  pathway  to  the  grave  may  be  the  same, 

And  the  proud  man  shall  tread  it,  and  the  low, 

With  his  bowed  head,  shall  bear  him  company. 

Decay  will  make  no  difference,  and  death, 

With  his  cold  hand,  shall  make  no  difference ; 

And  there  will  be  no  precedence  of  power, 

In  waking  at  the  coming  trump  of  God ; 

But  in  the  temper  of  the  invisible  mind, 

The  godlike  and  undying  intellect, 

There  are  distinctions  that  will  live  in  heaven, 

When  time  is  a  forgotten  circumstance ! 

The  elevated  brow  of  kings  will  lose 

The  impress  of  regalia,  and  the  slave 

Will  wear  his  immortality  as  free, 

Beside  the  crystal  waters ;  but  the  depth 

Of  glory  in  the  attributes  of  God, 

Will  measure  the  capacities  of  mind ;  . 

And  as  the  angels  differ,  will  the  ken 

Of  gifted  spirits  glorify  him  more. 

It  is  life's  mystery.     The  soul  of  man 

Createth  fts  own  destiny  of  power;- 

And,  as  the  trial  is  intenser  here, 

His  being  hath  a  nobler  strength  in  heaven. 

What  is  its  earthly  victory  ?     Press  on ! 
For  it  hath  tempted  angels.     Yet  press  on ! 
For  it  shall  make  you  mighty  among  men  ; 
And  from  the  eyrie  of  your  eagle  thought, 
Ye  shall  look  down  on  monarchs.     O,  press  on ! 
For  the  high  ones  and  powerful  shall  come 
To  do  you  reverence ;  and  the  beautiful 
Will  know  the  purer  language  of  your  brow, 
And  read  it  like  a  talisman  of  love  ! 
Press  on !  for  it  is  godlike  to  unloose 
The  spirit,  and  forget  yourself  in  thought ; 
Bending  a  pinion  for  the  deeper  sky, 
And,  in  the  very  fetters  of  your  flesh, 
Mating  with  the  pure  essences  of  heaven ! 
Press  on ! — c  for  in  the  grave  there  is  no  work, 
And  no  device.' — Press  on !  while  yet  ye  may ! 

So  lives  the  soul  of  man.     It  is  the  thirst 
Of  his  immortal  nature  ;  and  he  rends 
The  rock  for  secret  fountains,  and  pursues 
The  path  of  the  illimitable  wind 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  93 

For  mysteries — and  this  is  human  pride  ! 

There  is  a  gentler  element,  and  man 

May  breathe  it  with  a  calm,  unruffled  soul, 

And  drink  its  living  waters  till  his  heart 

Is  pure — and  this  is  human  happiness! 

Its  secret  and  its  evidence  are  writ 

In  the  broad  book  of  nature.     'Tis  to  have 

Attentive  and  believing  faculties ; 

To  go  abroad  rejoicing  in  the  joy 

Of  beautiful  and  well  created  things; 

To  love  the  voice  of  waters,  and  the  sheen 

Of  silver  fountains  leaping  to  the  sea; 

To  thrill  with  the  rich  melody  of  birds, 

Living  their  life  of  music  ;  to  be  glad 

In  the  gay  sunshine,  reverent  in  the  storm; 

To  see  a  beauty  in  the  stirring  leaf, 

And  find  calm  thoughts  beneath  the  whispering  tree ; 

To  see,  and  hear,  and  breathe  the  evidence 

Of  God's  deep  wisdom  in  the  natural  world ! 

It  is  to  linger  on  ■  the  magic  face 

Of  human  beauty,'  and  from  light  and  shade 

Alike  to  draw  a  lesson ;  'tis  to  love 

The  cadences  of  voices  that  are  tuned 

By  majesty  and  purity  of  thought ; 

To  gaze  on  woman's  beauty,  as  a  star 

Whose  purity  and  distance  make  it  fair ; 

And  in  the  gush  of  music  to  be  still, 

And  feel  that  it  has  purified  the  heart! 

It  is  to  love  all  virtue  for  itself, 

All  nature  for  its  breathing  evidence  ; 

And,  when  the  eye  hath  seen,  and  when  the  ear 

Hath  drunk  the  beautiful  harmony  of  the  world, 

It  is  to  humble  the  imperfect  mind, 

And  lean  the  broken  spirit  upon  God ! 

Thus  would  I,  at  this  parting  hour,  be  true 
To  the  great  moral  of  a  passing  world. 
Thus  would  I — like  a  just  departing  child, 
Who  lingers  on  the  threshold  of  his  home — 
Remember  the  best  lesson  of  the  lips 
Whose  accents  shall  be  with  us  now,  no  more ! 
It  is  the  gift  of  sorrow  to  be  pure  ; 
And  I  would  press  the  lesson  ;  that,  when  life 
Hath  half  become  a  weariness,  and  hope 
Thirsts  for  serener  waters,  Go  abroad 


94  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Upon  the  paths  of  nature,  and,  when  all 
Its  voices  whisper,  and  its  silent  things 
Are  breathing  the  deep  beauty  of  the  world, 
Kneel  at  its  simple  altar,  and  the  God 
Who  hath  the  living  waters  shall  be  there  ! 


Retirement. — Anonymous. 


"  The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 
With  prayer  and  praise  agree, 

And  seem  by  Thy  sweet  bounty  made 
For  those  who  follow  Thee. 

"  There,  if  Thy  Spirit  touch  the  soul,  ' 

And  grace  her  mean  abode, 
O,  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 

She  communes  with  her  God. 

"  There,  like  the  nightingale,  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays, 
Nor  asks  a  witness  to  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise." 


Corcper . 


I  love  to  steal  awhile  away 
From  every  cumbering  care, 

And  spend  the  hours  of  setting  day 
In  humble,  grateful  prayer. 

I  love  in  solitude  to  shed 

The  penitential  tear, 
And  all  His  promises  to  plead* 

Where  none  but  God  can  hear. 

I  love  to  think  on  mercies  past, 

And  future  good  implore, 
And  all  my  sighs  and  sorrows  cast 

On  him  whom  I  adore. 

I  love  by  faith  to  take  a  view 
Of  brighter  scenes  in  heaven  ; 

Such  prospects  oft  my  strength  renew, 
While  here  by  tempests  driven. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  95 

Thus,  when  life's  toilsome  day  is  o'er, 

May  its  departing  ray 
Be  calm  as  this  impressive  hour, 

And  lead  to  endless  day. 


To  the  River  Arte.—  Taltsmapt. 

Not  from  the  sands  or  cloven  rocks, 

Thou  rapid  Arve,  thy  waters  flow ; 
Nor  earth,  within  its  bosom,  locks 

Thy  dark,  unfathomed  wells  below. 
Thy  springs  are  in  the  cloud,  thy  stream 

Begins  to  move  and  murmur  first 
Where  ice-peaks  feel  the  noonday  beam, 

Or  rain-storms  on  the  glacier  burst. 

Born  where  the  thunder,  and  the  blast, 

And  morning's  earliest  light  are  born, 
Thou  rushest,  swoln,  and  loud,  and  fast, 

By  these  low  homes,  as  if  in  scorn : 
Yet  humbler  springs  yield  purer  waves, 

And  brighter,  glassier  streams  than  thine, 
Sent  up  from  earth's  unlighted  caves, 

With  heaven's  own  beam  and  image  shine. 

Yet  stay  ;  for  here  are  flowers  and  trees ; 

Warm  rays  on  cottage  roofs  are  here, 
And  laugh  of  girls,  and  hum  of  bees : 

Here  linger  till  thy  waves  are  clear. 
Thou  heedest  not ;  thou  hastest  on  ; 

From  steep  to  steep  thy  torrent  falls, 
Till,  mingling  with  the  mighty  Rhone, 

It  rests  beneath  Geneva's  walls. 

Rush  on ;  but  were  there  one  with  me 

That  loved  me,  I  would  light  my  hearth 
Here,  where  with  God's  own  majesty 

Are  touched  the  features  of  the  earth. 
By  these  old  peaks,  white,  high,  and  vast, 

Still  rising  as  the  tempests  beat, 
Here  would  I  dwell,  and  sleep,  at  last, 

Among  the  blossoms  at  their  feet. 


96  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  Burial. — Anonymous. 
"  We  therefore  commit  his  body  to  the  ground.'' — Burial  Service. 

The  earth  has  fallen  cold  and  deep 

Above  his  narrow  bier ; 
No  wintry  winds  can  break  his  sleep, 

No  thunders  reach  his  ear. 

The  mourner's  parting  steps  are  gone, 

Gone  the  last  echoing  sound  ; 
And  night's  dark  shadows,  stealing  on, 

Spread  solemn  gloom  around. 

And  he  whose  heart  was  wont  to  glow 
With  joy,  when  hastening  home, 

Here  must  he  lie.,  cold,  silent,  now, 
And  mouldering  in  the  tomb, — 

Till  time  itself,  and  days,  and  years, 

Shall  all  have  passed  away  ; 
In  that  cold  heart,  no  hopes  nor  fears 

Shall  hold  their  dubious  sway. 
******** 
Though  deep  the  slumbers  of  the  tomb, 

Though  dark  that  bed  of  clay, 
Yet  shall  he  wake,  and  leave  that  gloom, 

For  everlasting  day. 


On  the  Loss  of  a  pious  Friend. — Brainard. 
Imitated  from  the  57th  chapter  of  Isaiah. 

Who  shall  weep  when  the  righteous  die  ? 

Who  shall  mourn  when  the  good  depart  ? 
When  the  soul  of  the  godly  away  shall  fly, 

Who  shall  lay  the  loss  to  heart  ? 

He  has  gone  into  peace  ;  he  has  laid  him  down 
To  sleep  till  the  dawn  of  a  brighter  day  ; 

And  he  shall  wake  on  that  holy  morn, 

When  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  97 

But  ye,  who  worship  in  sin  and  shame 

Your  idol  gods,  whate'er  they  be, — 
Who  scoff  in  your  pride  at  your  Maker's  name, 

By  the  pebbly  stream  and  the  shady  tree, — 

Hope  in  your  mountains,  and  hope  in  your  streams, 
Bow  down  in  their  worship,  and  loudly  pray  ; 

Trust  in  your  strength,  and  believe  in  your  dreams, 
But  the  wind  shall  carry  them  all  away. 

There's  one  who  drank  at  a  purer  fountain, 

One  who  was  washed  in  a  purer  flood  : 
He  shall  inherit  a  holier  mountain, 

He  shall  worship  a  holier  Lord. 

But  the  sinner  shall  utterly  fail  and  die, 
Whelmed  in  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea  ; 

And  God,  from  his  throne  of  light  on  high, 
Shall  say,  "  There  is  no  peace  for  thee." 


Icarus* — From  the  Port-Folio. 

Heard'st  thou  that  dying  moan  of  gasping  breath, 
The  shriek  of  agony,  despair  and  death  ? 
Prone  from  his  lofty  station  in  the  skies, 
The  lost  adventurer  falls,  no  more  to  rise ; 
Vain  boast  of  earthly  nature,  that  hath  striven 
To  rival,  in  his  flight,  the  lords  of  heaven ! 

Long  o'er  the  azure  air  he  winged  his  way, 
And  tracked  the  pure  ethereal  light  of  day, 
On  floating  clouds  of  amber  radiance  hung, 
And  on  the  fragrant  breeze  his  pinions  flung ; 
But  ah !  forgetful  that  the  blaze  of  noon 
Would  sweep  his  daring  frame  to  earth  too  soon, 
Spurning  his  sire,  he  rose  sublime  on  high, 
Lost  in  the  radiance  of  the  solar  sky  : — 
The  melting  wax  proclaims  his  sad  defeat ; 
He  fades  before  the  intolerable  heat. 


*  This  piece,  which  was  first  published  in  the  Port-Folio,  was  written,  we 
believe,  by  Rev.  J.  W.  Eastburn.— Ed. 
0 


98  COMMOX-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  heaving  surge  received  him  as  he  fell, 
While  sadder  moaned  the  unaccustomed  swell ; 
The  Nereids  caught  him  on  the  trembling  waves, 
And  bore  his  body  to  their  coral  caves ; 
His  funeral  song  they  sung,  and  every  surge 
Murmured  along  his  melancholy  dirge  : 
Wide  o'er  the  sparkling  deep  the  sound  was  heard, 
Mixed  with  the  wailing  of  the  ocean  bird, 
Then  passed  away,  and  all  was  still  again 
Upon  the  wide,  unfathomable  main; 
But  to  that  roaring  sea  immortal  fame 
Gave — to  commemorate  the  deed — his  name ! 


Sunset  in  September* — Carlos  Wilcox. 

The  sun  now  rests  upon  the  mountain  tops — 
Begins  to  sink  behind — is  half  concealed — 
And  now  i's  gone  :  the  last  faint  twinkling  beam 
Is  cut  in  twain  by  the  sharp  rising  ridge. 

*  Every  person,  who  has  witnessed  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  scenery 
in  Andover,  will  recognise  with  delight  the  local  as  well  as  general  truth 
and  beauty  of  this  description.  There  is  not,  perhaps,  in  New  England,  a 
spot  where  the  sun  goes  down,  of  a  clear  summer's  evening,  amidst  so  much 
grandeur  reflected  over  earth  and  sky.  In  the  winter  season,  too,  it  is 
a  most  magnificent  and  impressive  scene.  The  great  extent  of  the  land- 
scape ;  the  situation  of  the  hill,  on  the  broad  level  summit  of  which  stand 
the  buildings  of  the  Theological  Institution  ;  the  vast  amphitheatre  of  luxu- 
riant forest  and  field,  which  rises  from  its  base,  and  swells  away  into  the 
heavens  ;  the  perfect  outline  of  the  horizon  •,  the  noble  range  of  blue  moun- 
tains in  the  background,  that  seem  to  retire  one  beyond  another  almost  to 
infinite  distance  ;  together  with  the  magnificent  expanse  of  sky  visible  at 
once  from  the  elevated  spot, — these  features  constitute  at  all  times  a  scene 
on  which  the  lover  of  nature  can  never  be  weary  with  gazing.  When  the  sun 
goes  down,  it  is  all  in  a  blaze  with  his  descending  glory.  The  sunset  is  the 
most  perfectly  beautiful  when  an  afternoon  shower  has  just  preceded  it. 
The  gorgeous  clouds  roll  away  like  masses  of  amber.  The  sky,  close  to  the 
horizon,  is  a  sea  of  the  richest  purple.  The  setting  sun  shines  through  the 
mist,  which  rises  from  the  wet  forest  and  meadow,  and  makes  the  clustered 
foliage  appear  invested  with  a  brilliant  golden  transparency.  Nearer  to  the 
eye,  the  trees  and  shrubs  are  sparkling  with  fresh  rain  drops,  and  over  the 
whole  scene,  the  parting  rays  of  sunlight  linger  with  a  yellow  gleam,  as  if 
reluctant  to  pass  entirely  away.  Then  come  the  varying  tints  of  twilight, 
'  fading,  still  fading,'  till  the  stars  are  out  in  their  beauty,  and  a  cloudless  . 
night  reigns,  with  its  silence,  shadows  and  repose.  In  the  summer,  Ando- 
ver combines  almost  every  thing  to  charm  and  elevate  the  feelings  of  the 
student.  In  winter,  the  north-western  blasts,  that  sweep  fresh  from  the 
snow-banks  on  the  Grand  Monadnock,  make  the  invalid,  at  least,  sigh  for  a 
more  congenial  climate. — Ed. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  99 

Sweet  to  the  pensive  is  departing  day, 

When  only  one  small  cloud,  so  still  and  thin, 

So  thoroughly  imbued  with  amber  light, 

And  so  transparent,  that  it  seems  a  spot 

Of  brighter  sky,  beyond  the  farthest  mount, 

Hangs  o'er  the  hidden  orb  ;  or  where  a  few 

Long,  narrow  stripes  of  denser,  darker  grain, 

At  each  end  sharpened  to  a  needle's  point, 

With  golden  borders,  sometimes  straight  and  smooth, 

And  sometimes  crinkling  like  the  lightning  stream, 

A  half  hour's  space  above  the  mountain  lie ; 

Or  when  the  whole  consolidated  mass, 

That  only  threatened  rain,  is  broken  up 

Into  a  thousand  parts,  and  yet  is  one, 

One  as  the  ocean  broken  into  waves ; 

And  all  its  spongy  parts,  imbibing  deep 

The  moist  effulgence,  seem  like  fleeces  dyed 

Deep  scarlet,  saffron  light,  or  crimson  dark, 

As  they  are  thick  or  thin,  or  near  or  more  remote, 

All  fading  soon  as  lower  sinks  the  sun, 

Till  twilight  end.     But  now  another  scene, 

To  me  most  beautiful  of  all,  appears : 

The  sky,  without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

Throughout  the  west,  is  kindled  to  a  glow 

So  bright  and  broad,  it  glares  upon  the  eye, 

Not  dazzling,  but  dilating  with  calm  force 

Its  power  of  vision  to  admit  the  whole. 

Below,  'tis  all  of  richest  orange  dye, 

Midway  the  blushing  of  the  mellow  peach 

Paints  not,  but  tinges  the  ethereal  deep  ; 

And  here,  in  this  most  lovely  region,  shines, 

With  added  loveliness,  the  evening-star. 

Above,  the  fainter  purple  slowly  fades, 

Till  changed  into  the  azure  of  mid-heaven. 

Along  the  level  ridge,  o'er  which  the  sun 
Descended,  in  a  single  row  arranged, 
As  if  thus  planted  by  the  hand  of  art, 
Majestic  pines  shoot  up  into  the  sky, 
And  in  its  fluid  gold  seem  half  dissolved. 
Upon  a  nearer  peak,  a  cluster  stands 
With  shafts  erect,  and  tops  converged  to  one, 
A  stately  colonnade  with  verdant  roof; 
Upon  a  nearer  still,  a  single  tree, 
With  shapely  form,  looks  beautiful  alone  ; 
While,  farther  northward,  through  a  narrow  pass 


100  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Scooped  in  the  hither  range,  a  single  mount 
Beyond  the  rest,  of  finer  smoothness  seems, 
And  of  a  softer,  more  ethereal  blue, 
A  pyramid  of  polished  sapphire  built. 

But  now  the  twilight  mingles  into  one 
The  various  mountains  ;  levels  to  a  plain 
This  nearer,  lower  landscape,  dark  with  shade, 
Where  every  object  to  my  sight  presents 
Its  shaded  side ;  while  here  upon  these  walls, 
And  in  that  eastern  wood,  upon  the  trunks 
Under  thick  foliage,  reflective  shows 
Its  yellow  lustre.     How  distinct  the  line 
Of  the  horizon  parting  heaven  and  earth  ! 


From  "  The  Buccaneer ." — Dana. 

A  sound  is  in  the  Pyrenees ! 

Whirliiig  and  dar,k,  comes  roaring  down 

A  tide,  as  of  a  thousand  seas, 

Sweeping  both  cowl  and  crown. 
On  field  and  vineyard  thick  and  red  it  stood. 
Spain's  streets  and  palaces  are  full  of  blood ; — 

And  wrath  and  terror  shake  the  land  ; 

The  peaks  shine  clear  in  watchfire  lights ; 

Soon  comes  the  tread  of  that  stout  band — 

Bold  Arthur  and  his  knights. 
Awake  ye,  Merlin!     Hear  the  shout  from  Spain! 
The  spell  is  broke  ! — Arthur  is  come  again !— - 

Too  late  for  thee,  thou  young,  fair  bride : 
The  lips  are  cold,  the  brow  is  pale, 
That  thou  didst  kiss  in  love  and  pride. 
He  cannot  hear  thy  wail, 
Whom  thou  didst  lull  with  fondly  murmured  sound- 
His  couch  is  cold  and  lonely  in  the  ground. 

He  fell  for  Spain — her  Spain  no  more ; 

For  he  was  gone  who  made  it  dear ; 

And  she  would  seek  some  distant  shore, 

At  rest  from  strife  and  fear, 
And  wait,  amidst  her  sorrows,  till  the  day 
His  voice  of  love  should  call  her  thence  away. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  101 

Lee  feigned  him  grieved,  and  bowed  him  low. 

'T  would  joy  his  heart  could  he  but  aid 

So  good  a  lady  in  her  wo, 

He  meekly,  smoothly  said. 
With  wealth  and  servants,  she  is  soon  aboard, 
And  that  white  steed  she  rode  beside  her  lord. 

The  sun  goes  down  upon  the  sea ; 

The  shadows  gather  round  her  home. 

"  How  like  a  pall  are  ye  to  me  ! 

My  home,  how  like  a  tomb ! 
O,  blow,  ye  flowers  of  Spain,  above  his  head. 
Ye  will  not  blow  o'er  me  when  I  am  dead." 

And  now  the  stars  are  burning  bright ; 

Yet  still  she  looks  towards  the  shore 

Beyond  the  waters  black  in  night. 

"  I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more  ! 
Ye're  many,  waves,  yet  lonely  seems  your  flow, 
And  I'm  alone — scarce  know  I  where  I  go." 

Sleep,  sleep,  thou  sad  one,  on  the  sea ! 

The  wash  of  waters  lulls  thee  now  ; 

His  arm  no  more  will  pillow  thee, 

Thy  hand  upon  his  brow. 
He  is  not  near,  to  hush  thee,  or  to  save. 
The  ground  is  his — the  sea  must  be  thy  grave. 


Sonnet. — Bryant, 

A  power  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air 
From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him,  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 

From  the  hot  steam  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 

Look  forth  upon  the  earth  :  her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten ;  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze : 

The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants ; 

For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown ; 
The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his  den ; 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and  men 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town  : 

As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned,  and  sent 

Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 
9^ 


102  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Power  of  the  Soul  in  investing  external  Circumstances  with 
the  Hue  of  its  own  Feelings. — Dana. 

— Life  in  itself,  it  life  to  all  things  gives; 
For  whatsoe'er  it  looks  on,  that  thing  lives — 
Becomes  an  acting  being,  ill  or  good  ; 
And,  grateful  to  its  giver,  tenders  food 
For  the  soul's  health,  or,  suffering  change  unblest, 
Pours  poison  down  to  rankle  in  the  breast : 
As  is  the  man,  e'en  so  it  bears  its  part, 
And  answers,  thought  to  thought,  and  heart  to  heart. 

Yes,  man  reduplicates  himself.     You  see, 
In  yonder  lake,  reflected  rock  and  tree. 
Each  leaf  at  rest,  or  quivering  in  the  air, 
Now  rests,  now  stirs,  as  if  a  breeze  were  there 
Sweeping  the  crystal  depths.     How  perfect  all ! 
And  see  those  slender  top-boughs  rise  and  fall ; 
The  double  strips  of  silvery  sand  unite 
Above,  below,  each  grain  distinct  and  bright. — 
Thou  bird,  that  seek'st  thy  food  upon  that  bough, 
Peck  not  alone  ;  that  bird  below,  as  thou, 
Is  busy  after  food,  and  happy,  too  — 
They're  gone  !     Both,  pleased,  away  together  flew. 

And  see  we  thus  sent  up,  rock,  sand,  and  wood, 
Life,  joy,  and  motion  from  the  sleepy  flood  ? 
The  world,  0  man,  is  like  that  flood  to  thee : 
Turn  where  thou  wilt,  thyself  in  all  things  see 
Reflected  back.     As  drives  the  blinding  sand 
Round  Egypt's  piles,  where'er  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 
If  that  thy  heart  be  barren,  there  will  sweep 
The  drifting  waste,  like  waves  along  the  deep, 
Fill  up  the  vale,  and  choke  the  laughing  streams 
That  ran  by  grass  and  brake,  with  dancing  beams ; 
Sear  the  fresh  woods,  and  from  thy  heavy  eye 
Veil  the  wide-shifting  glories  of  the  sky, 
And  one  still,  sightless  level  make  the  earth, 
Like  thy  dull,  lonely,  joyless  soul, — a  dearth. 

The  rill  is  tuneless  to  his  ear,  who  feels 
No  harmony  within ;  the  south  wind  steals 
As  silent  as  unseen  amongst  the  leaves. 
Who  has  no  inward  beauty,  none  perceives, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  103 

Though  all  around  is  beautiful.     Nay,  more — 

In  nature's  calmest  hour,  he  hears  the  roar 

Of  winds  and  flinging  waves — puts  out  the  light, 

When  high  and  angry  passions  meet  in  fight ; 

And,  his  own  spirit  into  tumult  hurled, 

He  makes  a  turmoil  of  a  quiet  world  : 

The  fiends  of  his  own  bosom  people  air 

With  kindred  fiends,  that  hunt  him  to  despair. 

Hates  he  his  fellow-men  ?     Why,  then,  he  deems 

'Tis  hate  for  hate  : — as  he,  so  each  one  seems. 

Soul !  fearful  is  thy  power,  which  thus  transforms 
All  things  into  its  likeness ;  heaves  in  storms 
The  strong,  proud  sea,  or  lays  it  down  to  rest, 
Like  the  hushed  infant  on  its  mother's  breast — 
Which  gives  each  outward  circumstance  its  hue, 
And  shapes  all  others'  acts  and  thoughts  anew, 
That  so,  they  joy,  or  love,  or  hate,  impart, 
As  joy,  love,  hate,  holds  rule  within  the  heart. 


Spring  in  Town. — Bryant. 

The  country  ever  has  a  lagging  spring, 
Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth, 

And  June  its  roses.     Showers  and  sunshine  bring 
Slowly  the  deepening  verdure  o'er  the  earth ; 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 

And  one  by  one  the  singing  birds  come  back ; 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.     Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day, 

Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours, 

Breathes  through  the  sky  of  March  the  airs  of  May, 

Shine  on  our  roofs,  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom — 

And,  lo,  our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 
Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 

That,  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen 
Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon; 

And  they  that  search  the  untrodden  wood  for  flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 


104  COMMON-PLACE    UOOK    OF    POETRY. 

For  here  arc  eyes  that  shame  the  violet, 
Or  the  dark  drop  that  on  the  pansy  lies ; 

And  foreheads  white  as  when,  in  clusters  set, 
The  anemonies  by  forest  fountains  rise  ; 

And  the  spring-beauty  boasts  no  tenderer  streak 

Than  the  soft  red  on  many  a  youthful  cheek. 

And  thick  about  those  lovely  temples  lie 

Locks  that  the  lucky  Vignardonne  has  curled — 

Thrice  happy  man, whose  trade  it  is  to  buy, 

And  bake,  and  braid  those  love-nets  of  the  world  . 

Who  curls  of  every  glossy  color  keepest, 

And  sellest,  it  is  said,  the  blackest  cheapest ! 

And  well  thou  mayst ;  for  Italy's  brown  maids 

Send  the  dark  locks  with  which  their  brows  are  drest* 

And  Tuscan  lasses  from  their  jetty  braids 
Crop  half  to  buy  a  ribbon  for  the  rest ; 

But  the  fresh  Norman  girls  their  ringlets  spare, 

And  the  Dutch  damsel  keeps  her  flaxen  hair. 

Then  henceforth  let  no  maid  or  matron  grieve 

To  see  her  locks  of  an  unlovely  hue, 
Frowzy  or  thin ;  for  Vignardonne  shall  give 

Such  piles  of  curls  as  nature  never  knew  : 
Eve,  with  her  veil  of  tresses,  at  the  sight 
Had  blushed  outdone,  and  owned  herself  a  fright. 

Soft  voices  and  light  laughter  wake  the  street 
Like  notes  of  wood-birds,  and  where'er  the  eye 

Threads  the  long  way,  plumes  wave,  and  twinkling  feet 
Fall  light,  as  hastes  that  crowd  of  beauty  by ; 

The  ostrich,  hurrying  o'er  the  desert  space, 

Scarce  bore  those  tossing  plumes  with  fleeter  pace. 

No  swimming  Juno  gait>  of  languor  born, 
Is  theirs,  but  a  light  step  of  freest  grace, 

Light  as  Camilla's  o'er  the  unbent  corn, — 
A  step  that  speaks  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Since  Quiet,  meek  old  dame,  was  driven  away 

To  Singsing  and  the  shores  of  Tappan  bay. 

Ye  that  dash  by  in  chariots,  who  will  care 

For  steeds  and  footmen  now  ?     Ye  cannot  show 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  105 

Fair  face,  and  dazzling  dress,  and  graceful  air, 

And  last  edition  of  the  shape  !     Ah  no ; 
These  sights  are  for  the  earth  and  open  sky, 
And  your  loud  wheels  unheeded  rattle  by. 


The  Sabbath. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

Who  scorn  the  hallowed  day  set  heaven  at  naught. 
Heaven  would  wear  out  whom  one  short  sabbath  tires. 
Emblem  and  earnest  of  eternal  rest, 
A  festival  with  fruits  celestial  crowned, 
A  jubilee  releasing  him  from  earth, 
The  day  delights  and  animates  the  saint. 
It  gives  new  vigor  to  the  languid  pulse 
Of  life  divine,  restores  the  wandering  feet, 
Strengthens  the  weak,  upholds  the  prone  to  slip, 
Quickens  the  lingering,  and  the  sinking  lifts, 
Establishing  them  all  upon  a  rock. 
Sabbaths,  like  way-marks,  cheer  the  pilgrim's  path, 
His  progress  mark,  and  keep  his  rest  in  view. 
In  life's  bleak  winter,  they  are  pleasant  days, 
Short  foretastes  of  the  long,  long  spring  to  come. 
To  every  new-born  soul,  each  hallowed  morn 
Seems  like  the  first,  when  every  thing  was  new. 
Time  seems  an  angel  come  afresh  from  heaven, 
His  pinions  shedding  fragrance  as  he  flies, 
And  his  bright  hour-glass  running  sands  of  gold. 
In  every  thing  a  smiling  God  is  seen. 
On  earth,  his  beauty  blooms,  and  in  the  sun 
His  glory  shines.     In  objects  overlooked 
On  other  days  he  now  arrests  the  eye. 
Not  in  the  deep  recesses  of  his  works, 
But  on  their  face,  he  now  appears  to  dwell. 
While  silence  reigns  among  the  works  of  man, 
The  works  of  God  have  leave  to  speak  his  praise 
With  louder  voice,  in  earth,  and  air,  and  sea. 
His  vital  Spirit,  like  the  light,  pervades 
All  nature,  breathing  round  the  air  of  heaven, 
And  spreading  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  life 
A  halcyon  calm.     Sight  were  not  needed  now 
To  bring  him  near  ;  for  Faith  performs  the  work  ; 
In  solemn  thought  surrounds  herself  with  God, 
With  such  transparent  vividness,  she  feels 


106  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Struck  with  admiring  awe,  as  if  li ansform'd 

To  sudden  vision.     Such  is  oft  her  power 

In  God's  own  house,  which,  in  the  absorbing  act 

Of  adoration,  or  inspiring  praise, 

She  with  his  glory  fills,  as  once  a  cloud 

Of  radiance  filled  the  temple's  inner  court. 


Industry  and  Prayer, — Carlos  Wilcox. 

Time  well  employed  is  Satan's  deadliest  foe  : 
It  leaves  no  opening  for  the  lurking  fiend : 
Life  it  imparts  to  watchfulness  and  prayer, 
Statues,  without  it  in  the  form  of  guards. 

The  closet  which  the  saint  devotes  to  prayer 
Is  not  his  temple  only,  but  his  tower, 
Whither  he  runs  for  refuge,  when  attacked ; 
His  armory,  to  which  he  soon  retreats. 
When  danger  warns,  his  weapons  to  select, 
And  fit  them  on.     He  dares  not  stop  to  plead, 
When  taken  by  surprise  and  half  o'ercome, 
That,  now,  to  venture  near  the  hallowed  place 
Were  but  profane  ;•  a  plea  that  marks  a  soul 
Glad  to  impose  on  conscience  with  a  show 
Of  humble  veneration,  to  secure 
Present  indulgence,  which,  when  once  enjoyed, 
It  means  to  mourn  with  floods  of  bitter  tears. 

The  tempter  quits  his  vain  pursuit,  and  flies, 
When  by  the  mounting  suppliant  drawn  too  near 
The  upper  world  of  purity  and  light. 
He  loses  sight  of  his  intended  prey, 
In  that  effulgence  beaming  from  the  throne 
Radiant  with  mercy.     But  devotion  fails 
To  succor  and  preserve  the  tempted  soul, 
Whose  time  and  talents  rest  or  run  to  waste. 
Ne'er  will  the  incense  of  the  morn  diffuse 
A  salutary  savor  through  the  day, 
With  charities  and  duties  not  well  filled. 
These  form  the  links  of  an  electric  chain 
That  join  the  orisons  of  morn  and  eve, 
And  propagate  through  all  its  several  parts. 
While  kept  continuous,  the  ethereal  fire ; 
But  if  a  break  be  found,  the  fire  is  spent. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  107 


Consolations  of  Religion  to  the  Poor. — Perc;val. 

There  is  a  mourner,  and  her  heart  is  broken ; 
She  is  a  widow  ;  she  is  old  and  poor; 
Her  only  hope  is  in  that  sacred  token 
Of  peaceful  happiness  when  life  is  o'er  ; 
She  asks  nor  wealth  nor  pleasure,  begs  no  more 
Than  Heaven's  delightful  volume,  and  the  sight 
Of  her  Redeemer.     Sceptics,  would  you  pour 
Your  blasting  vials  on  her  head,  and  blight 
Sharon's  sweet  rose,  that  blooms  and  charms  her  beicg's  night 5 

She  lives  in  her  affections ;  for  the  grave 
Has  closed  upon  her  husband,  children;  all 
Her  hopes  are  with  the  arm  she  trusts  will  save 
Her  treasured  jewels;  though  her  views  are  small, 
Though  she  has  never  mounted  high,  to  fall 
And  writhe  in  her  debasement,  yet  the  spring 
Of  her  meek,  tender  feelings,  cannot  pall 
Her  unperverted  palate,  but  will  bring 
A  joy  without  regret,  a  bliss  that  has  no  sting. 

Even  as  a  fountain,  whose  unsullied  wave 
Wells  in  the  pathless  valley,  flowing  o'er 
With  silent  waters,  kissing,  as  they  lave, 
The  pebbles  with  light  rippling,  and  the  shore 
Of  matted  grass  and  flowers, — so  softly  pour 
The  breathings  of  her  bosom,  when  sne  prays, 
Low-bowed,  before  her  Maker ;  then  no  more 
She  muses  on  the  griefs  of  former  days ; 
Her  full  heart  melts,  and  flows  in  Heaven's  dissolving  rays. 

And  faith  can  see  a  new  world,  and  the  eyes 
Of  saints  look  pity  on  her  :  Death  will  come — 
A  few  short  moments  over,  and  the  prize 
Of  peace  eternal  waits  her,  and  the  tomb 
Becomes  her  fondest  pillow  ;  all  its  gloom 
Is  scattered.     What  a  meeting  there  will  be 
To  her  and  all  she  loved  here  !  and  the  bloom 
Of  new  life  from  those  cheeks  shall  never  flee  : 
Theirs  is  the  health  which  lasts  through  all  eternity. 


Extract  from  the  Airs  of  Palestine. — Pierpont. 

Where  lies  our  path  ? — Though  many  a  vista  call, 
We  may  admire,  but  cannot  tread  them  all. 


10S      COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY. 

Where  lies  our  path  ? — A  poet,  and  inquire 

What  hills,  what  vales,  what  streams  become  the  lyre  ? 

See,  there  Parnassus  lifts  his  head  of  snow  ; 

See  at  his  foot  the  cool  Cephissus  flow ; 

There  Ossa  rises  ;  there  Olympus  towers  ; 

Between  them,  Tempe  breathes  in  beds  of  flowers, 

Forever  verdant ;  and  there  Peneus  glides 

Through  laurels,  whispering  on  his  shady  sides. 

Your  theme  is  Music  ; — Yonder  rolls  the  wave, 

Where  dolphins  snatched  Arion  from  his  grave, 

Enchanted  by  his  lyre  : — Cithaeron's  shade 

Is  yonder  seen,  where  first  Amphion  played 

Those  potent  airs,  that,  from  the  yielding  earth, 

Charmed  stones  around  him,  and  gave  cities  birth. 

And  fast  by  Haenius,  Thracian  Hebrus  creeps 

O'er  golden  sands,  and  still  for  Orpheus  weeps, 

Whose  gory  head,  borne  by  the  stream  along, 

Was  still  melodious,  and  expired  in  song. 

There  Nereids  sing,  and  Triton  winds  his  shell ; 

There  be  thy  path — for  there  the  muses  cjwell. 

No,  no — a  lonelier,  lovelier  path  be  mine  ; 
Greece  and  her  charms  I  leave  for  Palestine. 
There  purer  streams  through  happier  valleys  flow, 
And  sweeter  flowers  on  holier  mountains  blow. 
I  love  to  breathe  where  Gilead  sheds  her  balm  ; 
I  love  to  walk  on  Jordan's  banks  of  palm  ; 
I  love  to  wet  my  foot  in  Hermon's  dews ; 
I  love  the  promptings  of  Isaiah's  muse  : 
In  Carmel's  holy  grots  I'll  court  repose, 
And  deck  my  mossy  couch  with  Sharon's  deathless  rose. 

Here  arching  vines  their  leafy  banner  spread,. 
Shake  their  green  shields,  and  purple  odors  shed, 
At  once  repelling  Syria's  burning  raj-, 
And  breathing  freshness  on  the  sultry  day. 
Here  the  wild  bee  suspends  her  murmuring  wing, 
Pants  on  the  rock,  or  sips  the  silver  spring ; 
And  here, — as  musing  on  my  theme  divine, — 
I  gather  flowers  to  bloom  along  my  line, 
And  hang  my  garlands  in  festoons  around, 
Inwreathed  with  clusters,  and  with  tendrils  bound ; 
And  fondly,  warmly,  humbly  hope  the  Power, 
That  gave  perfumes  and  beauty  to  the  flower, 
Drew  living  water  from  this  rocky  shrine, 
Purpled  the  clustering  honors  of  the  vine, 
And  led  me,  lost  in  devious  mazes,  hither, 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      109 

To  weave  a  garland,  will  not  let  it  wither; — 

Wond'ring,  I  listen  to  the  strain  suhlime, 

That  flows,  all  freshly,  down  the  stream  of  time, 

Wafted  in  grand  simplicity  along, 

The  undying  hreath,  the  very  soul  of  song. 


On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Woodward,  at  Edinburgh.— 
Braiistard. 

"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss  j  it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 

Another  !  'tis  a  sad  word  to  the  heart, 

That  one  by  one  has  lost  its  hold  on  life, 
From  all  it  loved  or  valued,  forced  to  part 

In  detail.     Feeling  dies  not  by  the  knife 

That  cuts  at  once  and  kills  :  its  tortured  strife 
Is  with  distilled  affliction,  drop  by  drop 

Oozing  its  bitterness.     Our  world  is  rife 
With  grief  and  sorrow  :  all  that  we  would  prop, 
Or  would  be  propped  with,  falls ;   when  shall  the  ruin  stop ! 

The  sea  has  one,  and  Palestine  has  one, 

And  Scotland  has  the  last.     The  snooded  maid 

Shall  gaze  in  wonder  on  the  stranger's  stone, 
And  wipe  the  dust  off  with  her  tartan  plaid — 
And  from  the  lonely  tomb  where  thou  art  laid, 

Turn  to  some  other  monument — nor  know 

Whose  grave  she  passes,  or  whose  name  she  read ; 

Whose  loved  and  honored  relics  lie  below  ; 

Whose  is  immortal  joy,  and  whose  is  mortal  wo. 

There  is  a  world  of  bliss  hereafter — else 

Why  are  the  bad  above,  the  good  beneath 
The  green  grass  of  the  grave  ?     The  Mower  fells 

Flowers  and  briers  alike.     But  man  shall  breathe 

(When  he  his  desolating  blade  shall  sheathe, 
And  rest  him  from  his  work)  in  a  pure  sky, 

Above  the  smoke  of  burning  worlds  ; — and  Death 
On  scorched  pinions  with  the  dead  shall  lie, 
When  Time,  with  all  his  years  and  centuries,  has  passed  by. 
10 


110  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY, 


From  "The  Minstrel  Girl." — James  G.  Whittier, 

Again  'twas  evening. — Agnes  knelt, 

Pale,  passionless, — a  sainted  one  : 
On  wasted  cheek  and  pale  brow  dwelt 

The  last  beams  of  the  setting  sun. 
Alone — the  damp  and  cloistered  wall 

Was  round  her  like  a  sepulchre ; 
And  at  the  vesper's  mournful  call 

Was  bending  every  worshipper. 
She  knelt — her  knee  upon  the  stone — 

Her  thin  hand  veiled  her  tearful  eye, 
As  it  were  sin  to  gaze  upon 

The  changes  of  the  changeful  sky. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  sudden  thought 

Of  her  enthusiast  moments  came 
With  the  bland  eve — and  she  had  sought 

To  stifle  in  her  heart  the  flame 
Of  its  awakened,  memory  : 

She  felt  she  might  not  cherish,  then, 
The  raptures  of  a  spirit,  free 

And  passionate  as  hers  had  been, 
When  its  sole  worship  was,  to  look 

With  a  delighted  eye  abroad ; 
And  read,  as  from  an  open  book, 

The  written  languages  of  God, 

How  changed  she  kneels ! — the  vile,  gray  hood, 

Where  spring-flowers  twined  with  raven  hair ; 
And  where  the  jewelled  silk  hath  flowed, 

Coarse  veil  and  gloomy  scapulaire. 
And  wherefore  thus  ?     Was  hers  a  soul, 

Which,  all  unfit  for  Nature's  gladness, 
Could  grasp  the  bigot's  poisoned  bowl, 

And  drain  with  joy  its  draught  of  madness  ? 
Read  ye  the  secret,  who  have  nursed 

In  your  own  hearts  intenser  feelings, 
Which  stole  upon  ye,  at  the  first, 

Like  bland  and  musical  revealings 
From  some  untrodden  Paradise, 

Until  your  very  soul  was  theirs ; 
And  from  their  maddening  ecstasies 

Ye  woke  to  mournfulness  and  prayers. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  Ill 

But  she  is  sometimes  happy  now — 

And  yet  her  happiness  is  not 
Such  as  the  buoyant  heart  may  know — 

And  it  is  blended  with  her  lot 
To  chasten  every  smile  with  tears, 

And  look  on  life  with  tempered  gladness, 
That,  undebased  by  human  fears, 

Her  hope  can  smile  on  Memory's  sadness, 
Like  sunshine  on  the  falling  rain, 

Or  as  the  moonlight  on  the  cloud  ;-»- 
Nor  would  she  mingle  once  again 

With  life's  unsympathising  crowd ; — 
But,  yielding  up  to  earnest  prayer 

Life's  dark  and  mournful  residue, 
She  waiteth  for  her  summons  where 

The  pure  in  heart  their  faith  renew. 


The  Torn  Hat.—T$.  P.  Willis. 

There's  something  in  a  noble  boy, 

A  brave,  free-hearted,  careless  one, 
With  his  unchecked,  unbidden  joy, 

His  dread  of  books  and  love  of  fun, 
And  in  his  clear  and  ready  smile, 
Unshaded  by  a  thought  of  guile, 

And  unrepressed  by  sadness — 
Which  brings  me  to  my  childhood  back, 
As  if  I  trod  its  very  track, 

And  felt  its  very  gladness. 

And  yet  it  is  not  in  his  play, 

When  every  trace  of  thought  is  lost, 
And  not  when  you  would  call  him  gay, 

That  his  bright  presence  thrills  me  most. 

His  shout  may  ring  upon  the  hill, 
His  voice  be  echoed  in  the  hall, 

His  merry  laugh  like  music  trill, 
And  I  in  sadness  hear  it  all — 

For,  like  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow, 

I  scarcely  notice  such  things  now — 
But  when,  amid  the  earnest  game, 

He  stops,  as  if  he  music  heard, 


112  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And,  heedless  of  his  shouted  name 
As  of  the  carol  of  a  bird, 

Stands  gazing  on  the  empty  air 

As  if  some  dream  were  passing  there — 
'Tis  then  that  on  his  face  I  look, 

His  beautiful  but  thoughtful  face, 
And,  like  a  long-forgotten  book, 

Its  sweet,  familiar  meanings  trace, 
Remembering  a  thousand  things 
Which  passed  me  on  these  golden  wings 

Which  time  has  fettered  now — 

Things  that  came  o'er  me  with  a  thrill, 
And  left  me  silent,  sad,  and  still, 

And  threw  upon  my  brow 
A  holier  and  a  gentler  cast, 
That  was  too  innocent  to  last. 

'Tis  strange  how  thought  upon  a  child 

Will,  like  a  presence,  sometimes  press, 
And  when  his  pulse  is  beating  wild, 

And  life  itself  is  in  excess — 
When  foot  and  hand,  and  ear  and  eye, 
Are  all  with  ardor  straining  high — 

How  in  his  heart  will  spring 
A  feeling  whose  mysterious  thrall 
Is  stronger,  sweeter  far  than  all ; 

And  on  its  silent  wing, 
How  with  the  clouds  he'll  float  away, 
As  wandering  and  as  lost  as  they ! 


The  Memory  of  the  Just  is  blessed. — Mrs.  SigojjR^ey, 

Thou  too,  blest  Raikes — philanthropist  divine — 

Who,  all  unconscious  what  thy  hands  had  done, 
Didst  plant  that  germ,  whose  glorious  fruit  shall  shine 

When  from  his  throne  doth  fall  yon  darkened  sun, — 
The  Sabbath  bell,  the  Teacher's  hallowed  lore, 

The  countless  throng  from  childhood's  snares  set  free, 
Who  in  sweet  strains  the  Sire  of  Heaven  adore, 

Shall  point  in  solemn  gratitude  to  thee. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  113 

Who  was  with  Martyn,  when  lie  breathed  his  last, 

A  martyr  pale,  on  Asia's  burning  sod  ? 
Who  cheered  his  spirit  as  it  onward  past 

From  its  frail  house  of  clay  ? — The  hosts  of  God. 
Oh !   ye  who  trust,  when  earthly  toils  shall  cease, 

To  find  a  home  in  heaven's  unfading  clime, 
Drink  deeper  at  the  fountain  head  of  peace, 

And  cleanse  your  spirits  for  that  world  sublime ! 


The  Wife. — New  York  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  She  flung  her  white  arms  around  him — Thou  art 
That  this  poor  heart  can  cling  to." 

I  could  have  stemmed  misfortune's  tide, 

And  borne  the  rich  one's  sneer, 
Have  braved  the  haughty  glance  of  pride, 

Nor  shed  a  single  tear. 
I  could  have  smiled  on  every  blow 

From  Life's  full  quiver  thrown, 
While  I  might  gaze  on  thee,  and  know 

I  should  not  be  "  alone." 

I  could — I  think  I  could  have  brooked, 

E'en  for  a  time,  that  thou 
Upon  my  fading  face  hadst  looked 

With  less  of  love  than  now  ; 
For  then  I  should  at  least  have  felt 

The  sweet  hope  still  my  own, 
To  win  thee  back,  and,  whilst  I  dwelt 

On  earth,  not  been  "  alone." 

But  thus  to  see,  from  day  to  day, 

Thy  brightening  eye  and  cheek, 
And  watch  thy  life-sands  waste  away, 

Unnumbered,  slowly,  meek  ; — 
To  meet  thy  smiles  of  tenderness, 

And  catch  the  feeble  tone 
Of  kindness,  ever  breathed  to  bless, 

And  feel,  I'll  be  "  alone  ;" — 

To  mark  thy  strength  each  hour  decay, 
And  yet  thy  hopes  grow  stronger, 
10* 


114  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

As,  filled  with  heaven-ward  trust,  they  say, 
"  Earth  may  not  claim  thee  longer ;" 

Nay,  dearest ;  'tis  too  much — this  heart 
Must  break,  when  thou  art  gone  ; 

It  must  not  be ;  we  may  not  part ; 
I  could  not  live  "  alone !" 


Song  of  the  Stars. — Bryant. 

When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath, 
And  orbs  of  beauty,  and  spheres  of  flame," 
From  the  void  abyss,  by  myriads  came, 
In  the  joy  of  youth,  as  they  darted  away, 
Through  the  .widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voices  in  dhorus  rung ; 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung : — 

"  Away,  away !  through  the  wide,  wide  sky,— 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie, — 
Each  sun,  with  the  worlds  that  round  us  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole, 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white. 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

"  For  the  Source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face* 
And  the  brightness  o'erfiows  unbounded  space  ; 
And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides. 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play : 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path  away ! 

"  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass ! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean 

"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  115 

And  the  morn  and  the  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets,  and  shed  their  dews ; 
And,  twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone,  the  night  goes  round ! 

"  Away,  away  ! — in  our  blossoming  bowers, 
In  the  soft  air,  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 
See,  love  is  brooding,  and  life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 

"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years. 
Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent 
To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament, — 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  our  lamps  are  dim." 


Sum77ier  Evening  at  a  short  Distance  from  the  City.- 
Alonzo  Lewis. 

Ajvd  now  the  city  smoke  begins  to  rise, 
And  spread  its  volume  o'er  the  misty  sea ; 

From  school  dismissed,  the  barefoot  urchin  hies 
To  drive  the  cattle  from  the  upland  lea ; 

With  gentle  pace  we  cross  the  polished  beach, 

And  the  sun  sets  as  we  our  mansion  reach. 

Then  come  the  social  joys  of  summer  eve, 
The  pleasant  walk  along  the  river-side, 

What  time  their  task  the  weary  boatmen  leave, 
And  little  fishes  from  the  silver  tide, 

Elate  with  joy,  leap  in  successive  springs, 

And  spread  the  wavelets  in  diverging  rings. 

His;h  overhead  the  stripe-winged  nighthawk  soars, 
With  loud  responses  to  his  distant  love  ; 

And  while  the  air  for  insects  he  explores, 
In  frequent  swoop  descending  from  above, 

Startles,  with  whizzing  sound,  the  fearful  wight, 

Who  wanders  lonely  in  the  silent  night. 


116  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETttY. 

Around  our  heads  the  bat,  on  leathern  wings, 
In  airy  circles  wheels  his  sudden  flight ; 

The  whippoorwill,  in  distant  forest,  sings 

Her  loud,  unvaried  song;  and  o'er  the  night 

The  boding  owl,  upon  the  evening  gale, 

Sends  forth  her  wild  and  melancholy  wail. 

The  first  sweet  hour  of  gentle  evening  flies, 

On  downy  pinions  to  eternal  rest ; 
Along  the  vale  the  balmy  breezes  rise, 

Fanning  the  languid  boughs ;  while  in  the  west 
The  last  faint  streaks  of  daylight  die  away, 
And  night  and  silence  close  the  summer  day. 


Introductioyi  to  the  Poem  of"  Yamoyden." — 
Robert  C.  Sands. 

Go  forth,  sad  fragments  of  a  broken  strain, 
The  last  that  either  bard  shall  e'er  essay  : 
The  hand  can  ne'er  attempt  the  chords  again, 
That  first  awoke  them  in  a  happier  day : 
Where  sweeps  the  ocean  breeze  its  desert  way, 
His  requiem  murmurs  o'er  the  moaning  wave ; 
And  he  who  feebly  now  prolongs  the  lay 
Shall  ne'er  the  minstrel's  hallowed  honors  crave ; 
His  harp  lies  buried  deep  in  that  untimely  grave  ! 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  with  thee  began  the  love 
Of  sacred  song  ;  the  wont,  in  golden  dreams, 
'Mid  classic  realms  of  splendors  past  to  rove, 
O'er  haunted  steep,  and  by  immortal  streams; 
Where  the  blue  wave,  with  sparkling  bosom  gleams 
Round  shores,  the  mind's  eternal  heritage, 
For  ever  lit  by  memory's  twilight  beams ; 
Where  the  proud  dead,  that  live  in  storied  page, 
Beckon,  with  awful  port,  to  glory's  earlier  age. 

There  would  we  linger  oft,  entranced,  to  hear, 
O'er  battle  fields,  the  epic  thunders  roll ; 
Or  list,  where  tragic  wail  upon  the  ear, 
Through  Argive  palaces  shrill  echoing  stole ; 
There  would  we  mark,  uncurbed  by  all  control, 
In  central  heaven,  the  Theban  eagle's  flight ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  117 

Or  hold  communion  with  the  musing  soul 
Of  sage  or  bard,  who  sought,  'mid  pagan  night, 
In  loved  Athenian  groves,  for  truth's  eternal  light. 

Homeward  we  turned  to  that  fair  land,  but  late 
Redeemed  from  the  strong  spell  that  bound  it  fast, 
Where  Mystery,  brooding  o'er  the  waters,  sate, 
And  kept  the  key,  till  three  millenniums  past; 
When,  as  creation's  noblest  work  was  last, 
Latest,  to  man  it  was  vouchsafed  to  see 
Nature's  great  wonder,  long  by  clouds  o'ercast, 
And  veiled  in  sacred  awe,  that  it  might  be 
An  empire  and  a  home,  most  worthy  for  the  free. 

And  here  forerunners  strange  and  meet  were  found 
Of  that  blest  freedom,  only  dreamed  before  ; — 
Dark  were  the  morning  mists,  that  lingered  round 
Their  birth  and  story,  as  the  hue  they  bore. 
"  Earth  was  their  mother ;"  or  they  knew  no  more, 
Or  would  not  that  their  secret  should  be  told ; 
For  they  were  grave  and  silent ;  and  such  lore, 
To  stranger  ears,  they  loved  not  to  unfold, 
The  long-transmitted  tales  their  sires  were  taught  of  old. 

Kind  Nature's  commoners,  from  her  they  drew 
Their  needful  wants,  and  learned  not  how  to  hoard ; 
And  him  whom  strength  and  wisdom  crowned  they  knew, 
But  with  no  servile  reverence,  as  their  lord. 
And  on  their  mountain  summits  they  adored 
One  great,  good  Spirit,  in  his  high  abode, 
And  thence  their  incense  and  orisons  poured 
To  his  pervading  presence,  that  abroad 
They  felt  through  all  his  works, — their  Father,  King,  and 
God. 

And  in  the  mountain  mist,  the  torrent's  spray, 
The  quivering  forest,  or  the  glassy  flood, 
Soft  falling  showers,  or  hues  of  orient  day, 
They  imaged  spirits  beautiful  and  good  ; 
But  when  the  tempest  roared,  with  voices  rude, 
Or  fierce,  red  lightning  tired  the  forest  pine, 
Or  withering  heats  untimely  seared  the  wood, 
The  angry  forms  they  saw  of  powers  malign; 
These  they  besought  to  spare,  those  blessed  for  aid  divine. 


118  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

As  the  fresh  sense  of  life,  through  every  vein, 
With  the  pure  air  they  drank,  inspiring  came, 
Comely  they  grew,  patient  of  toil  and  pain, 
And,  as  the  fleet  deer's,  agile  was  their  frame : 
Of  meaner  vices  scarce  they  knew  the  name  ; 
These  simple  truths  went  down  from  sire  to  son, — 
To  reverence  age, — the  sluggish  hunter's  shame, 
And  craven  warrior's  infamy,  to  shun, — 
And  still  avenge  each  wrong,  to  friends  or  kindred  done. 

From  forest  shades  they  peered,  with  awful  dread, 
When,  uttering  flame  and  thunder  from  its  side, 
The  ocean-monster,  with  broad  wings  outspread, 
Came,  ploughing  gallantly  the  virgin  tide. 
Few  years  have  passed,  and  all  their  forests'  pride 
From  shores  and  hills  has  vanished,  with  the  race, 
Their  tenants  erst,  from  memory  who  have  died, 
Like  airy  shapes,  which"  eld  was  wont  to  trace, 
In  each  green  thicket's  depths,  and  lone,  sequestered  place. 

And  many  a  gloomy  tale  tradition  yet 
Saves  from  oblivion,  of  their  struggles  vain, 
Their  prowess  and  their  wrongs,  for  rhymer  meet 
To  people  scenes  where  still  their  names  remain ; 
And  so  began  our  young,  delighted  strain, 
That  would  evoke  the  plumed  chieftains  brave, 
And  bid  their  martial  hosts  arise  again, 
Where  Narragansett's  tides  roll  by  their  grave, 
And  Haup's  romantic  steeps  are  piled  above  the  wave. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  with  thee  began  my  song, 
And  o'er  thy  bier  its  latest  accents  die ; 
Misled  in  phantom-peopled  realms  too  long, — 
Though  not  to  me  the  muse  averse  deny, 
Sometimes,  perhaps,  her  visions  to  descry, — 
Such  thriftless  pastime  should  with  youth  be  o'er; 
And  he  who  loved  with  thee  his  notes  to  try, 
But  for  thy  sake  such  idlesse  would  deplore, — 
And  swears  to  meditate  the  thankless  muse  no  more. 

But  no  !  the  freshness  of  that  past  shall  still 
Sacred  to  memory's  holiest  musings  be  ; 
When  through  the  ideal  fields  of  song,  at  will, 
He  roved,  and  gathered  chaplets  wild  with  thee ; 
When,  reckless  of  the  world,  alone  and  free, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  119 

Like  two  proud  bark-,  we  kept  our  careless  way, 
That  sail  by  moonlight  o'er  the  tranquil  sea; 
Their  white  apparel  and  their  streamers  gay, 
Bright  gleaming  o'er  the  main,  beneath  the  ghostly  ray ; — 

And  downward,  far,  reflected  in  the  clear 
Blue  depths,  the  eye  their  fairy  tackling  sees; 
So  buoyant,  they  do  seem  to  float  in  air, 
And  silently  obey  the  noiseless  breeze  ; — 
Till,  all  too  soon,  as  the  rude  winds  may  please, 
They  part  for  distant  ports.     The  gales  benign, 
Swift  wafting,  bore,  by  Heaven's  all-wise  decrees, 
To  its  own  harbor  sure,  where  each  divine 
And  joyous  vision,  seen  before  in  dreams,  is  thine. 

Muses  of  Helicon !  melodious  race 
Of  Jove  and  golden-haired  Mnemosyne! 
Whose  art  from  memory  blots  each  sadder  trace, 
And  drives  each  scowling  form  of  grief  away  ! 
Who,  round  the  violet  fount,  your  measures  gay 
Once  trod,  and  round  the  altar  of  great  Jove  ; 
Whence,  wrapt  in  silvery  clouds  your  nightly  way 
Ye  held,  and  ravishing  strains  of  music  wove, 
That  soothed  the  Thunderer's  soul,  and  filled  his  courts  above! 

Bright  choir  !   with  lips  untempted,  and  with  zone 
Sparkling,  and  unapproached  by  touch  profane  ; 
Ye,  to  whose  gladsome  bosoms  ne'er  was  known 
The  blight  of  sorrow,  or  the  throb  of  pain  ; — 
Rightly  invoked, — if  right  the  elected  swain, 
On  your  own  mountain's  side  ye  taught  of  yore, 
Whose  honored  hand  took  not  your  gift  in  vain, 
Worthy  the  budding  laurel-bough  it  bore, — 
Farewell !  a  long  farewell !  I  worship  you  no  more. 


Dawn. — N.  P.  Willis. 

That  line  I  learned  not  in  the  old  sad  song." — Charles  Lamb. 

Throw  up  the  window  !     'Tis  a  morn  for  life 
In  its  most  subtle  luxury.     The  air 
Is  like  a  breathing  from  a  rarer  world ; 
And  the  south  wind  seems  liquid — it  o'ersteals 


120  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

My  bosom  and  my  brow  so  bathingly. 
It  has  come  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed ;  for  as  it  parts, 
With  its  invisible  fingers,  my  loose  hair, 
I  know  it  has  been  trifling  with  the  rose, 
And  stooping  to  the  violet.     There  is  joy 
For  all  God's  creature?  in  it.     The  wet  leaves 
Are  stirring  at  its  touch,  and  birds  are  singing 
As  if  to  breathe  were  music  ;  and  the  grass 
Sends  up  its  modest  odor  with  the  dew, 
Like  the  small  tribute  of  humility. 
Lovely  indeed  is  morning !     I  have  drank 
Its  fragrance  and  its  freshness,  and  have  felt 
Its  delicate  touch  ;  and  'tis  a  kindlier  thing 
Than  music,  or  a  feast,  or  medicine. 

I  had  awoke  from  an  unpleasant  dream, 
And  light  was  welcome  to  me.     I  looked  out 
To  feel  the  common  air,  and  when  the  breath 
Of  the  delicious  morning  met  my  brow, 
Cooling  its  fever,  and  the  pleasant  sun 
Shone  on  familiar  objects,  it  was  like 
The  feeling  of  the  captive  who  comes  forth 
From  darkness  to  the  cheerful  light  of  day. 
Oh  !  could  we  wake  from  sorrow ;  were  it  all 
A  troubled  dream  like  this,  to  cast  aside 
Like  an  untimely  garment  with  the  morn  ; 
Could  the  long  fever  of  the  heart  be  cooled 
By  a  sweet  breath  from  nature  ;  or  the  gloom 
Of  a  bereaved  affection  pass  away 
With  looking  on  the  lively  tint  of  flowers — 
How  lightly  were  the  spirit  reconciled 
To  make  this  beautiful,  bright  world  its  home! 


The  Restoration  of  Israel. — James  Wallis  Eastburn. 

Mountains  of  Israel,  rear  on  high 

Your  summits,  crowned  with  verdure  new, 

And  spread  your  branches  to  the  sky, 
Refulgent  with  celestial  dew. 

O'er  Jordan's  stream,  of  gentle  flow, 
And  Judah's  peaceful  valleys,  smile, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  121 

And  far  reflect  the  lovely  glow 

Where  ocean's  waves  incessant  toil. 

See  where  the  scattered  tribes  return ; 

Their  slavery  is  burst  at  length, 
And  purer  flames  to  Jesus  burn, 

And  Zion  girds  on  her  new  strengtn  : 
New  cities  bloom  along  the  plain, 

New  temples  to  Jehovah  rise, 
The  kindling  voice  of  praise  again 

Pours  its  sweet  anthems  to  the  skies. 

The  fruitful  fields  again  are  blest, 

And  yellow  harvests  smile  around ; 
Sweet  scenes  of  heavenly  joy  and  rest, 

Where  peace  and  innocence  are  found. 
The  bloody  sacrifice  no  more 

Shall  smoke  upon  the  altars  high, — 
But  ardent  hearts,  from  hill  to  shore, 

Send  grateful  incense  to  the  sky ! 

The  jubilee  of  man  is  near, 

When  earth,  as  heaven,  shall  own  His  reign; 
He  comes  to  wipe  the  mourner's  tear, 

And  cleanse  the  heart  from  sin  and  pain. 
Praise  him,  ye  tribes  of  Israel,  praise 

The  king  that  ransomed  you  from  wo : 
Nations,  the  hymn  of  triumph  raise, 

And  bid  the  song  of  rapture  flow  ! 


The  buried  Love. — Rufus  Dawes. 

M I  have  often  thought  that  flowers  were  the  alphabet  of  angels,  whereby 
they  write  on  hills  and  fields  mysterious  truths." — The  Rebels. 

She  sleeps  the  quiet  sleep  of  death, 

The  maid  who  lies  below, 
And  these  are  angel-missioned  flowers, 

That  o'er  the  green  turf  grow. 

And  they  are  sent  to  warn  the  fair, 

How  transient  is  their  bloom ; 
See,  how  they  bend  their  tender  forms, 

And  weep  upon  her  tomb. 
11 


122  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  blush  upon  her  living  cheek 
Had  shamed  the  morning  skies ; 

And  diamond  light  is  not  more  bright 
Than  were  her  youthful  eyes. 

To  see  her  on  a  summer's  day, 

Gave  love  a  lighter  wing; 
And  happy  thoughts  would  crowd  the  heart, 

And  gush  from  many  a  spring. 

I  know  the  language  of  the  flowers, 
And  love  to  hear  them  grieve, — 

When  crimsoning  to  the  eye  of  morn, 
Or  drooping  to  the  eve. 

I  listened  when  the  stt>r  of  love 
Shone  through  the  blue  serene, 

When  twilight  held  her  silent  wake, 
Beneath  the  crested  queen. 

They  told  of  her  whose  spirit  come 
To  breathe  upon  their  leaves ; 

And  can  I  choose  but  love  the  breath 
That  once  was  Genevieve's  ? 

She's  gone  where  sorrows  may  not  come, 

Where  pain  may  never  be  ; 
But  she,  who  lives  an  angel  still, 

May  sometimes  think  of  me. 

Though  gone,  alas  !  her  blushing  smile, 
Who  sleeps  in  sweet  repose, 

I  joy  to  find  its  mimic  grace 
Still  living  in  the  rose. 

Then  when  I  love  the  modest  flower, 

And  cherish  it  with  tears, 
It  minds  me  of  my  fleeting  time, 

Yet  chases  all  my  fears. 

And  when  my  hour  of  rest  shall  be, 

I  will  not  weep  my  doom ; 
So  angel-missioned  flowers  may  come 

And  gather  round  my  tomb ! 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      123 


The  Missionary. — W.  B.  Tappan. 

Onward,  ye  men  of  prayer! 
Scatter,  in  rich  exuberance,  the  seed, 
Whose  fruit  is  living  bread,  and  all  your  need 
Will  God  supply ;  Ins  harvest  ye  shall  share. 

To  him,  child  of  the  bow, 

The  wanderer  of  his  native  Oregon, 

Tell  of  that  Jesus,  who,  in  dying,  won 

The  peace-branch  of  the  skies — salvation  for  His  foe ! 

Unfurl  the  banneret 

On  other  shores, — Messiah's  cross  bid  shine 

O'er  every  lovely  hill  of  Palestine  ; 

Fair  stars  of  glory  that  shall  never  set. 

Seek  ye  the  far-off  isle  ; 

The  sullied  jewel  of  the  deep, 

O'er  whose  remembered  beauty  angels  weep, 

Restore  its  lustre,  and  to  God  give  spoil. 

Go,  break  the  chain  of  caste  ; 
Go,  quench  the  funeral  pyre,  and  bid  no  more 
The  Indian  river  roll  its  waves  of  gore  ; 
Look  up,  thou  East,  thy  night  is  overpast. 

To  heal  the  bruised,  speed; 

Oh,  pour  on  Africa  the  balm 

Of  Gilead,  and,  her  agony  to  calm, 

Whisper  of  fetters  broken,  and  the  spirit  freed. 

And  thou,  0  Church,  betake 

Thyself  to  watching,  labour — help  these  men  : 

God  shall  thee  visit  of  a  surety,  when 

Thou'rt  faithful :  Church  that  Jesus  bought,  awake,  awake  ! 


Missions. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Light  for  the  dreary  vales 
Of  ice-bound  Labrador ! 
Where  the  frost-king  breathes  on  the  slippery  sails, 


124  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  the  mariner  wakes  no  more ; 
Lift  high  the  lamp  that  never  fails, 
To  that  dark  and  sterile  shore. 

Light  for  the  forest  child ! 

An  outcast  though  he  be, 
From  the  haunts  where  the  sun  of  his  childhood  smiled, 

And  the  country  of  the  free  ; 
Pour  the  hope  of  Heaven  o'er  his  desert  wild, 

For  what  home  on  earth  has  he  ? 

Light  for  the  hills  of  Greece ! 

Light  for  that  trampled  clime 
Where  the  rage  of  the  spoiler  refused  to  cease 

Ere  it  wrecked  the  boast  of  time ; 
If  the  Moslem  hath  dealt  the  gift  of  peace, 

Can  ye  grudge  your  boon  sublime  ? 

Light  on  the  Hindoo  shed ! 

On  the  maddening  idol-train, 
The  flame  of  the  suttee  is  dire  and  red, 

And  the  fakir  faints  with  pain, 
And  the  dying  moan  on  their  cheerless  bed, 

By  the  Ganges  laved  in  vain. 

Light  for  the  Persian  sky ! 

The  Sophi's  wisdom  fades, 
And  the  pearls  of  Ormus  are  poor  to  buy 

Armor  when  Death  invades ; 
Hark !  Hark ! — 'tis  the  sainted  Martyn's  sigh 

From  Ararat's  mournful  shades. 

Light  for  the  Burman  vales ! 

For  the  islands  of  the  sea ! 
For  the  coast  where  the  slave-ship  fills  its  srila 

With  sighs  of  agony, 
And  her  kidnapped  babes  the  mother  wails 

'Neath  the  lone  banana-tree  ! 

Light  for  the  ancient  race 

Exiled  from  Zion's  rest ! 
Homeless  they  roam  from  place  to  place* 

Benighted  and  oppressed ; 
They  shudder  at  Sinai's  fearful  base ; 

Guide  them  to  Calvary's  breast. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  125 

Light  for  the  darkened  earth  ! 
Ye  blessed,  its  beams  who  shed, 
Shrink  not,  till  the  day-spring  hath  its  birth, 

Till,  wherever  the  footstep  of  man  doth  tread 
Salvation's  banner,  spread  broadly  forth, 
Shall  gild  the  dream  of  the  cradle-bed, 
And  clear  the  tomb 
From  its  lingering  g-oom, 
For  the  aged  to  rest  his  weary  head. 


The  Fear  of  Madness  * — Lucretia  Maria  Davidson. 

There  is  a  something  which  I  dread  ; 

It  is  a  dark,  a  fearful  thing  ; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread, 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 

Of  grief,  of  sickness,  or  of  sadness  ; 
'Tis  not  the  dread  of  death, — 'tis  more, — 

It  is  the  dread  of  madness. 

Oh  !  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause, 

Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course  ; 
May  this  hot  brain,  which,  burning,  glows 

With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  force, 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still, 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed ; 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal 


The  Matin  Hour  of  Prayer. — Anonymous. 


This  cool  and  fragrant  hour  of  prime, 
Unvexed  by  life's  intrusive  care, 

My  matin  hour  of  praise  shall  be, 
Sweet,  solitary  praise,  and  prayer. 


*  These  lines,  expressing  her  fears  of  insanity,  were  written  by  this  in- 
teresting girl  while  confined  to  her  bed  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption. 
They  were  unfinished,  and  the  last  she  ever  composed. — Ed. 
11* 


126  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

'Twill  gird  my  spirit  for  the  fight, 

The  glare,  the  strife,  of  this  world's  way ; 

Weak,  tempted,  weary,  lone,  and  sad, — 
'Tis  never,  never  vain  to  pray. 

This  cool  and  fragrant  hour  of  prime  ; 

The  silent  stars  are  fading  quite  ; 
The  moist  air  gently  stirs  the  leaves, 

Dew-laden,  to  the  breaking  light. 

The  stillness,  the  repose,  the  peace, 
They  win  the  quiet  soul  away, 

To  visit  that  Elysian  world, 

Where  breaketh  an  eternal  day. 

Ere  falls  the  stealing  step  of  dawn,     . 

The  night's  soft  dew  on  her  brown  wings, 
Upriseth  from  her  nest  the  lark, 

And,  soaring  to  the  sunlight,  sings. 

Thus  may  my  soul  sing  on,  and  soar 

Where  sight  tracks  not  her  flight  sublime, 

Morn,  noon,  sweet  eve,  and  ever  in 
This  cool  and  fragrant  hour  of  prime. 

For,  though  the  world  enclose  me  round, 
Strong  Faith  can  carry  me  abroad, 

Where  shines  my  home, — Jerusalem, 
The  glorious  dwelling-place  of  God  ! 

Then  let  my  soul  sing  on,  and  soar 
Above  the  world,  beyond  all  time, 

And  dwell  in  that  pure  light,  and  breathe 
The  air  from  that  celestial  clime. 

Sing  on  and  soar,  sing  on  and  soar, 
Till,  through  the  crystal  gates  of  heaven, 

No  longer  closed  in  upper  skies, 
Thou  enter  in  to  sing,  Forgiven ! 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  127 


Song* — From  Yamoydejv. 

Sleep,  child  of  my  love!  be  thy  slumber  as  light 
As  the  red  birds  that  nestle  secure  on  the  spray ; 

Be  the  visions  that  visit  thee  fairy  and  bright 

As  the  dew  drops  that  sparkle  around  with  the  ray. 

O,  soft  flows  the  breath  from  thine  innocent  breast ; 

In  the  wild  wood  Sleep  cradles  in  roses  thy  head ; 
But  her  who  protects  thee,  a  wanderer  unblessed, 

He  forsakes,  or  surrounds  with  his  phantoms  of  dread. 

I  fear  for  thy  father !  why  stays  he  so  long 

On  the  shores  where  the  wife  of  the  giant  was  thrown, 

And  the  sailor  oft  lingered  to  hearken  her  song, 
So  sad  o'er  the  wave,  e'er  she  hardened  to  stone. 

He  skims  the  blue  tide  in  his  birchen  canoe, 
Where  the  foe  in  the  moon-beams  his  path  may  descry ; 

The  ball  to  its  scope  may  speed  rapid  and  true, 
And  lost  in  the  wave  be  thy  father's  death  cry ! 

The  Power  that  is  round  us — whose  presence  is  near, 
In  the  gloom  and  the  solitude  felt  by  the  soul — 

Protect  that  lone  bark  in  its  lonely  career, 
And  shield  thee,  when  roughly  life's  billows  shall  roll ! 


Solitude. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Deep  solitude  I  sought.     There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day, 
While,  towering  near,  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  back-ground  'gainst  the  sky.     Thither  I  went, 
And  bade  my  spirit  drink  that  lonely  draught, 
For  which  it  long  had  languished  'mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world.     I  thought  to  be 

*  We  cannot  determine  whether  the  authorship  of  this  beautiful  song 
belongs  to  Mr.  Eastburn  or  Mr.  Sands.  From  a  comparison  of  its  charac- 
ter with  that  of  some  other  pieces  by  Mr.  Eastburn,  which  the  reader  will 
rind  in  this  volume,  we  should  be  inclined  to  attribute  it  to  him.  He  and 
his  friend  were  but  youthful  poets  when  Yamoyden  was  composed  ;  the 
former  being  but  twenty-two,  the  latter  only  eighteen.— Ed. 


128  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

There  without  witness.     But  the  violet's  eye 

Looked  up  upon  me, — the  fresh  wild-rose  smiled, 

And  the  young  pendent  vine-flower  kissed  my  cheek 

And  there  were  voices  too.     The  garrulous  brook, 

Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 

Its  history ; — up  came  the  singing  breeze, 

And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 

Responsive,  every  one.     Even  busy  life 

Woke  in  that  dell.     The  tireless-  spider  threw 

From  spray  to  spray  her  silver-tissued  snare. 

The  wary  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 

The  treasured  grain,  toiled  toward  her  citadel. 

To  the  sweet  hive  went  forth  the  loaded  bee, 

And  from  the  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 

Sang  to  her  nurslings. 

Yet  I  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone,  and  silent  in  thy  realm, 
Spirit  of  life  and  love!     It  might  not  be  ! 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains,  - 
Save  what  man  makes,  when,  in  his  selfish  breast, 
He  locks  his  joys,  and  bars  out  others'  grief. 
Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  to  Nature's  round 
Without  a  witness.     Trees,  and  flowers,  and  streams, 
Are  social  and  benevolent ;  and  he 
Wrho  oft  communeth  in  their  language  pure, 
Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  day, 
Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  dressed, 
His  Maker  there,  to  teach  his  listening  heart. 


Bishop  Ravenscroft. — George  Washington  Doane. 

" For  he  was  a  good  man." 

The  good  old  man  is  gone  ! 
He  lies  in  his  saintly  rest, 

And  his  labors  all  are  done, 
And  the  work  that  he  loved  the  best. 

The  good  old  man  is  gone — 
But  the  dead  in  the  Lord  are  blessed ! 

I  stood  in  the  holy  aisle, 
When  he  spake  the  solemn  word, 

That  bound  him,  through  care  and  toil, 
The  servant  of  the  Lord  : 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  129 

And  I  saw  how  the  depths  of  his  manly  soul 
By  that  sacred  vow  were  stirred. 

And  nobly  his  pledge  he  kept — 
For  the  truth  he  stood  up  alone, 

And  his  spirit  never  slept, 
And  his  march  was  ever  on! 

Oh !  deeply  and  long  shall  his  loss  be  wept, 
The  brave  old  man  that's  gone. 

There  were  heralds  of  the  cross, 
By  his  bed  of  death  that  stood, 

And  heard  how  he  counted  all  but  loss, 
For  the  gain  of  his  Savior's  blood  ; 

And  patiently  waited  his  Master's  voice, 
Let  it  call  him  when  it  would. 

The  good  old  man  is  gone  ! 
An  apostle  chair  is  void ; 

There  is  dust  on  his  mitre  thrown, 
And  they've  broken  his  pastoral  rod ; 

And  the  fold  of  his  love  he  has  left  alone, 
To  account  for  its  care  to  God. 

The  wise  old  man  is  gone  ! 
His  honored  head  lies  low, 

And  his  thoughts  of  power  are  done, 
And  his  voice's  manly  flow, 

And  the  pen  that,  for  truth,  like  a  sword  was  drawn, 
Is  still  and  soulless  now. 

The  brave  old  man  is  gone  ! 
With  his  armor  on,  he  fell  ;* 

Nor  a  groan  nor  a  sigh  was  drawn, 
When  his  spirit  fled,  to  tell ; 

For  mortal  sufferings,  keen  and  long, 
Had  no  power  his  heart  to  quell. 

The  good  old  man  is  gone ! 
He  is  gone  to  his  saintly  rest, 

Where  no  sorrow  can  be  known, 
And  no  trouble  can  molest: 

For  his  crown  of  life  is  won, 
And  the  dead  in  Christ  are  blessed ! 

*  The  bishop  was  at  that  time  (ten  days  before  his  death)  employing  the 
little  strength  he  had  in  revising  his  MSS.  for  publication .  By  them,  though 
dead,  he  will  yet  speak. 


130  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


The  Life  of  God  in  (he  Soul  of  Man. — Dana.* 

Come,  brother,  turn  with  me  from  pining  thought, 
And  all  those  inward  ills  that  sin  has  wrought; 
Come,  send  abroad  a  love  for  all  who  live. 
Canst  guess  what  deep  content,  in  turn,  they  give  ? 
Kind  wishes  and  good  deeds  will  render  back 
More  than  thou  e'er  canst  sum.     Thou'lt  nothing  lack, 
But  say,  "  I'm  full!" — Where  does  the  stream  begin? 
The  source  of  outward  joy  lies  deep  within. 

E'en  let  it  flow,  and  make  the  places  glad 
Where  dwell  thy  fellow  men.     Should'st  thou  be  sad, 
And  earth  seem  bare,  and  hours,  once  happy,  press 
Upon  thy  thoughts,  and  make  thy  loneliness 
More  lonely  for  the  past,  thou  then  shalt  hear 
The  music  of  those  waters  running  near, 
And  thy  faint  spirit  drink  the  cooling  stream, 
And  thine  eye  gladden  with  the  playing  beam, 

*We  are  disposed  to  rank  Mr.  Dana  at  the  head  of  all  the  American 
'poets,  not  excepting  Bryant  j  and  we  think  this  is  the  judgment  which 
posterity  will  pass  upon  his  writings.  Not  hecause  he  is  superior  to  all 
others  in  the  elegance  of  his  language,  and  in  the  polished  beauty  ana 
finish  of  his  compositions  :'in  these  respects,  Bryant  has,  in  this  country,  no 
equal :  and  Mr.  Dana  is  often  careless  in  the  dress  of  his  thoughts.  Xot  be- 
cause, In  the  same  kind  and  class  of  composition  to  which  Bryant  has  prin- 
cipally confined  his  genius,  he  would  be  superior,  or  even  equal  to  this  de- 
lightful writer:  for  the  genius  and  style  of  Bryant  are  peculiarly  suited  to 
the  accurate  and  exquisite  description  of  what  is  beautiful  in  nature  •,  and, 
what  is  more,  he  unites  with  this  power  the  spirit  of  gentle  human  feeling, 
and  sometimes  a  rich,  grand,  and  solemn  philosophy  :  it  will  be  long  ere 
any  one  breathes  forth  the  soul  of  poetry  in  a  finer  strain  than  that  to  tho 
evening  wind  ;  and  Coleridge  himself  could  hardly  have  written  a  nobler 
"  Thanatopsis."  But  Mr.  Dana  has  attempted  and  proved  successful  in  a 
higher  and  more  difficult  range  of  poetry  ;  he  exhibits  loftier  powers,  and 
his  compositions  agitate  the  suul  with  a  deeper  emotion.  His  language, 
without  being  bo  beautiful  and  finished,  is  yet  more  vivid,  concise,  and 
alive  and  informed  with  meaning.  His  descriptions  of  natural  objects  may 
not  pass  before  the  mind  with  such  sweet  harmony,  bat  they  often  present, 
in  a  single  line,  a  whole  picture  before  the  imagination,  with  a  vividness 
and  power  of  compression  which  are  astonishing.     For  instance  j 

"  But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

~2nd,  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea, 
The  black  duck,  icit'h  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silently."^ 


And  again  ; 


'  The  ship  works  hard  •,  the  seas  run  high  ; 
Their  white  tops,  flashing  through  the  night, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  131 

That  now,  upon  the  water,  dances,  now, 
Leaps  up  and  dances  in  the  hanging  bough. 

Is  it  not  lovely  ?     Tell  me,  where  doth  dwell 
The  fay  that  wrought  so  beautiful  a  spell  ? 
In  tnine  own  bosom,  brother,  didst  thou  say  ? 
Then  cherish  as  thine  own  so  good  a  fay. 

And  if,  indeed,  'tis  not  the  outward  state, 
But  temper  of  the  soul,  by  which  we  rate 
Sadness  or  joy,  then  let  thy  bosom  move 
With  noble  thoughts,  and  wake  thee  into  love. 
Then  let  the  feeling  in  thy  breast  be  given 
To  honest  ends  ;  this,  sanctified  by  Heaven, 
And  springing  into  life,  new  life  imparts, 
Till  thy  frame  beats  as  with  a  thousand  hearts. 

Our  sins  our  nobler  faculties  debase, 
And  make  the  earth  a  spiritual  waste 
Unto  the  soul's  dimmed  eye  : — 'tis  man,  not  earth— 
'Tis  thou,  poor,  self-starved  soul,  hast  caused  the  dearth. 

Give  to  the  eager,  straining  eye, 
A  icild  and~shifting  light." 
Again,  as  a  more  general  instance,  and  a  more  sublime  one  )  speaking  of 
the  prospect  of  immortality  : — 

"  'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight  ; 
'Tis  floating  ''midst  day's  setting  glories  ;  Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step. 
Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  : 
Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen  living  hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee." — 
In  these  respects, — in  the  power  of  giving  in  one  word,  as  it  were,  a  whole 
picture, — in  his  admirable  skill  in  the  perspective, — and  in  the  faculty  of 
chaining  down  the  vast  and  the  infinite  to  the  mind's  observation, — he  re- 
minds us  both  of  Collins  and  of  Milton.     We  have  not  space  here,  in  a  note, 
to  illustrate  the  resemblance,  by  instances  which  would  show  our  meaning, 
and  his  merits,  better  than  a  whole  chapter  of  criticism. 

But,  above  all,  we  admire  Mr.  Dana,  more  than  any  other  American  poet, 
because  he  has  aimed  not  merely  to  please  the  imagination,  but  to  rouse  up 
the  soul  to  a  solemn  consideration  of  its  future  destinies.  We  admire  him, 
because  his  poetry  is  full  of  benevolent,  alTectionate,  domestic  feeling;  but, 
more  than  this,  because  it  is  full  of  religious  feeling.  The  fountain  which 
gushes  here  has  mingled  with  the  "well  of  water  springing  up  to  ever- 
lasting life."'  The  aspirations  breathed  forth  in  this  poetry  are  humble, 
earnest  desires  after  that  holiness,  ';  without  which  no  man  shall  see  God.' 
It  speaks  of  a  better  land  of  rest,  "  but  bids  us  turn  to  God,  and  seek  our 
rest  in  Him."— Ed. 


132  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  earth  is  full  of  life  :  the  living  Hand 
Touched  it  with  life ;  and  all  its  forms  expand 
With  principles  of  being  made  to  suit 
Man's  varied  powers,  and  raise  him  from  the  brute. 
And  shall  the  earth  of  higher  ends  be  full  ? — 
Earth  which  thou  tread'st ! — and  thy  poor  mind  be  dull  ? 
Thou  talk  of  life,  with  half  thy  soul  asleep  ! 
Thou  "  living  dead  man,"  let  thy  spirits  leap 
Forth  to  the  day ;  and  let  the  fresh  air  blow 
Through  thy  soul's  shut  up  mansion.     Would'st  thou  know 
Something  of  what  is  life,  shake  off  this  death  ; 
Have  thy  soul  feel  the  universal  breath 
With  which  all  nature's  quick !  and  learn  to  be 
Sharer  in  all  that  thou  dost  touch  or  see. 
Break  from  thy  body's  grasp  thy  spirit's  trance  ; 
Give  thy  soul  air,  thy  faculties  expanse  : — 
Love,  joy, — e'en  sorrow, — yield  thyself  to  all! 
They'll  make  thy  freedom,  man,  and  not  thy  thrall. 
Knock  off  the  shackles  which  thy  spirit  bind 
To  dust  and  sense,  and  set  at  large  thy  mind. 
Then  move  in  sympathy  with  God's  great  whole, 
And  be,  like  man  at  first,  M  a  living  soul,  !" 
********* 
Debased  by  sin,  and  used  to  things  of  sense, 
How  shall  man's  spirit  rise  and  travel  hence, 
Where  lie  the  soul's  pure  regions,  without  bounds — 
Where  mind's  at  large — where  passion  ne'er  confounds 
Clear  thought — where  thought  is  sight — the  far  brings  nigh, 
Calls  up  the  deep,  and,  now,  calls  down  the  high. 

Cast  off  thy  slough !     Send  thy  low  spirit  forth 
Up  to  the  Infinite  ;  then  know  thy  worth. 
With  Infinite,  be  infinite  ;  with  Love,  be  love  ; 
Angel,  midst  angel  throngs  that  move  above ; 
Ay,  more  than  angel :  nearer  the  great  Cause, 
Through  his  redeeming  power,  now  read  his  laws — 
Not  with  thy  earthly  mind,  that  half  detects 
Something  of  outward  things  by  slow  effects ; 
Viewing  creative  causes,  learn  to  know 
The  hidden  springs ;  nor  guess,  as  here  below, 
Laws,  purposes,  relations,  sympathies — 
In  errors  vain. — Clear  Truth's  in  yonder  skies. 

Creature  all  grandeur,  son  of  truth  and  light, 
Up  from  the  dust !  the  last,  great  day  is  bright — 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  133 

Bright  on  the  holy  mountain,  round  the  throne, 

Bright  where  in  borrowed  light  the  far  stars  shone. 

Look  down  !  the  depths  are  bright !  and  hear  them  cry, 

"  Light !  light !" — Look  up  !   'tis  rushing  down  from  high  ! 

Regions  on  regions — far  away  they  shine : 

'Tis  light  ineffable,  'tis  light  divine  ! 

"  Immortal  light,  and  life  for  evermore  !" 

Off  through  the  deeps  is  heard  from  shore  to  shore 

Of  rolling  worlds — "  Man,  wake  thee  from  the  sod — 

Wake  thee  from  death — awake  ! — and  live  with  God  !" 


To  Pneuma. — James  Wallis  Eastburn. 

Tempests  their  furious  course  may  sweep 
Swiftly  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
Darkness  may  lend  her  gloomy  aid, 
And  wrap  the  groaning  world  in  shade ; 
But  man  can  show  a  darker  hour, 
And  bend  beneath  a  stronger  power ; — 
There  is  a  tempest  of  the  soul, 
A  gloom  where  wilder  billows  roll ! 

The  howling  wilderness  may  spread 
Its  pathless  deserts,  parched  and  dread, 
Where  not  a  blade  of  herbage  blooms, 
Nor  yields  the  breeze  its  soft  perfumes ; 
Where  silence,  death,  and  horror  reign, 
Unchecked,  across  the  wide  domain; — 
There  is  a  desert  of  the  mind 
More  hopeless,  dreary,  undefined  ! 

There  Sorrow,  moody  Discontent, 
And  gnawing  Care,  are  wildly  blent; 
There  Horror  hangs  her  darkest  clouds, 
And  the  whole  scene  in  gloom  enshrouds ; 
A  sickly  ray  is  cast  around, 
Where  nought  but  dreariness  is  found ; 
A  feeling  that  may  not  be  told, 
Dark,  rending,  lonely,  drear,  and  cold. 

The  wildest  ills  that  darken  life 
Are  rapture  to  the  bosom's  strife ; 
12 


134  COMMOX-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  tempest,  in  its  blackest  form, 

Is  beauty  to  the  bosom's  storm; 

The  ocean,  lashed  to  fury  loud, 

Its  high  wave  mingling  with  the  cloud, 

Is  peaceful,  sweet  serenity 

To  passion's  dark  and  boundless  sea. 

There  sleeps  no  calm,  there  smiles  no  rest, 

When  storms  are  warring  in  the  breast ; 

There  is  no  moment  of  repose 

In  bosoms  lashed  by  hidden  woes  ; 

The  scorpion  sting  the  fury  rears, 

And  every  trembling  fibre  tears  ; 

The  vulture  preys  with  bloody  beak 

Upon  the  heart  that  can  but  break ! 


To  a  Star.—  Luc  ret  i  a  Maria  Davidson. 

Written  in  her  fifteenth  year. 

Thou  brightly  glittering  star  of  even, 

Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  heaven ! 

Oh  !   were  this  fluttering  spirit.frec, 

How  quick  'twould  spread  its  wings  to  thee! 

How  calmly,  brightly,  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  virtue's  shrine  ! 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  raay'st  boast 
Was  never  ransomed,  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys,  together  share  ; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string, 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There,  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  heaven's  refulgent  lights  ; 
There,  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll, 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  heaven ! 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee, 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free ! 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  135 


Thwiatopsis* — Bryant. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language.     For  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart, — ■ 
Go  forth  unto  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air- — 
Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course.     Nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

*  This  poem,  so  much  admired,  both  in  England  and  America,  was  first 
published  in  1817,  in  the  North  American  Review.  The  following  verses 
were  then  prefixed  to  it  ;  they  are  in  themselves  beautiful,  but  more  so  as 
an  introduction  to  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  piece  which  they  preceded. 

"  Not  that  from  life,  and  all  its  woes, 

The  hand  of  death  shall  set  me  free  ; 
Not  that  this  head  shall  then  repose, 

In  the  low  vale,  most  peacefully. 

Ah,  when  I  touch  time's  farthest  brink, 

A  kinder  solace  must  attend  ; 
It  chills  my  very  soul  to  think 

On  that  dread  hour  when  life  must  end. 

In  vain  the  flattering  verse  may  breathe 

Of  ease  from  pain,  and  rest  trom  strife  ; 
There  is  a  sacred  dread  of  death, 

Inwoven  with  the  strings  of  life. 

This  bitter  cup  at  first  was  given, 

When  angry  Justice  frowned  severe  j 
And  'tis  the  eternal  doom  of  Heaven, 

That  man  must  view  the  grave  with  fear." 

Ed. 


136 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone ;  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales, 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty  ;  and  the' complaining  brooks, 
That  make  the  meadow  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce  ;  . 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings ;  yet — the  dead  are  there  ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  shalt  fall 
Unnoticed  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come, 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  137 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 

The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant,  in  the  smiles 

And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off, — 

Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those,  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that,  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon ;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


Sacred  Melody. — New  York  American. 

"  Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  hath  triumphed  gloriously  ;  the  horse  and  his  rid- 
er hath  he  thrown  into  the  sea."    Ezodus  xv.  26. 

Ye  daughters  and  soldiers  of  Israel,  look  back  ! 
Where — where  are  the  thousands  who  shadowed  your  track — 
The  chariots  that  shook  the  deep  earth  as  they  rolled — 
The  banners  of  silk,  and  the  helmets  of  gold  ? 

Where  are  they — the  vultures,  whose  beaks  would  have  fed 

On  the  tide  of  your  hearts  ere  the  pulses  had  fled  ? 

Give  glory  to  God,  who  in  mercy  arose, 

And  strewed  mid  the  waters  the  strength  of  our  foes! 

When  we  travelled  the  waste  of  the  desert  by  day, 
With  his  banner-cloud's  motion  he  marshalled  our  way; 
When  we  saw  the  tired  sun  in  his  glory  expire, 
Before  us  he  walked,  in  a  pillar  of  lire  ! 

But  this  morn,  and  the  Israelites'  strength  was  a  reed, 
That  shook  with  the  thunder  of  chariot  and  steed  : 
Where  now  are  the  swords  and  their  far-flashing  sweep  ? 
Their  lightnings  are  quenched  in  the  depths  of  the  deep. 

O  thou,  who  redeemest  the  weak  one  at  length, 
And  scourgest  the  strong  in  the  pride  of  their  strength — 
12* 


138  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Who  boldest  the  earth  and  the  sea  in  thine  hand, 
And  rulest  Eternity's  shadowy  land — 

To  thee  let  our  thoughts  and  our  offerings  tend, 
Of  virtue  the  Hope,  and  of  sorrow  the  Friend  ; 
Let  the  incense  of  prayer  still  ascend  to  thy  throne, 
Omnipotent — glorious — eternal — alone  ! 


The  Graves  of  the  Patriots. — Percival. 

Here  rest  the  great  and  good — here  they  repose 
After  their  generous  toil.     A  sacred  band, 
They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 
Comes  with  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 
And  gathers  them  again,  as  Winter  frowns. 
Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulchre  ;  green  sods 
Are  all  their 'monument ;   and  yet  it  tells 
A  nobler  history  than  pillared  piles, 
Or  the  eternal  pyramids.     They  need 
No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 
Their  greatness.     It  is  round  them  ;  and  the  joy 
With  which  their  children  tread  the  hallowed  ground 
That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 
That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 
That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued, — these,  though  mute, 
As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest, — these 
Are  monuments  more  lasting  than  the  fanes 
Reared  to  the  kings  and  demigods  of  old. 

Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  their  lowly  graves;  beneath  their  boughs 
There  is  a  solemn  darkness,  even  at  noon, 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 
Of  serious  Liberty.     No  factious  voice 
Called  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame, 
But  the  pure  consecrated  love  of  home. 
No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 
In  all  its  greatness.     It  has  told  itself 
To  the  astonished  gaze  of  awe-struck  kings, 
At  Marathon,  at  Bannockburn,  and  here, 
Where  first  our  patriots  sent  the  invader  back 
Broken  and  cowed.     Let  these  green  elms  be  all 
To  tell  us  where  they  fought,  and  where  they  lie. 
Their  feelings  were  all  nature,  and  thev  need 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  139 

No  art  to  make  them  known.     They  live  in  us, 
While  we  are  like  them,  simple,  hardy,  bold, 
Worshipping  nothing  but  our  own  pure  hearts, 
And  the  one  universal  Lord.     They  need 
No  column,  pointing  to  the  heaven  they  sought, 
To  tell  us  of  their  home.     The  heart  itself, 
Left  to  its  own  free  purpose,  hastens  there, 
And  there  alone  reposes.     Let  these  elms 
Bend  their  protecting  shadow  o'er  their  graves, 
And  build,  with  their  green  roof,  the  only  fane 
Where  we  may  gather  on  the  hallowed  day, 
That  rose  to  them  in  blood,  and  set  in  glory. 
Here  let  us  meet,  and,  while  our  motionless  lips 
Give  not  a  sound,  and  all  around  is  mute 
In  the  deep  sabbath  of  a  heart  too  full 
For  words  or  tears, — here  let  us  strew  the  sod 
With  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  and  make  to  them 
An  offering  of  the  plenty  Nature  gives, 
And  they  have  rendered  ours — perpetually. 


Funeral  Hymn. — Christian  Examiner. 

He  has  gone  to  his  God ;  he  has  gone  to  his  home, 
No  more  amid  peril  and  error  to  roam ; 
His  eyes  are  no  longer  dim ; 

His  feet  will  no  more  falter ; 
No  grief  can  follow  him  ; 

No  pang  his  cheek  can  alter. 

There  are  paleness,  and  weeping,  and  sighs  below ; 
For  our  faith  is  faint,  and  our  tears  will  now  •, 
But  the  harps  of  heaven  are  ringing ; 

Glad  angels  come  to  greet  him  ; 
And  hymns  of  joy  are  singing 

While  old  friends  press  to  meet  him. 

O  honored,  beloved,  to  earth  unconfined, 
Thou  hast  soared  on  high ;  thou  hast  left  us  behind. 
But  our  parting  is  not  forever ; 

We  will  follow  thee,  by  heaven's  light, 
Where  the  grave  cannot  dissever 
The  souls  whom  God  will  unite. 


140       COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY. 

Yes,  visions  of  his  future  rest 

To  man,  the  pilgrim,  here  are  shown; 

Deep  love,  pure  friendship,  thrill  his  breast, 
And  hopes  rush  in  of  joys  unknown. 

Released  from  earth's  dull  round  of  cares, 
The  aspiring  soul  her  vigor  tries  ; 

Plumes  her  soiled  pinions,  and  prepares 
To  soar  amid  ethereal  skies. 

Around  us  float,  in  changing  light, 
The  dazzling  forms  ofdistant  years ; 

And  earth  becomes  a  glorious  sight, 
Beyond  which  opening  heaven  appears. 


We  did  not  part  as  others  part ; 

And  should  we  meet  on  earth  no  more, 
Yet  deep  and  dear,  within  my  heart, 

Some  thoughts  will  rest,  a  treasured  store. 

How  oft,  when  weary  and  alone, 

Have  I  recalled  each  word,  each  look, 

The  meaning  of  each  varying  tone, 
And  the  last  parting  glance  we  took ! 

Yes,  sometimes,  even  here,  are  found 
Those  who  can  touch  the  chords  of  love, 

And  wake  a  glad  and  holy  sound, 

Like  that  which  fills  the  courts  above. 

It  is  as  when  a  traveller  hears* 

In  a  strange  land,  his  native  tongue, 

A  voice  he  loved  in  happier  years, 
A  song  that  once  his  mother  sung. 

We  part;  the  sea  will  roll  between, 

While  we  through  different  climates  roam ; 

Sad  days,  a  life  may  intervene  ; 

But  we  shall  meet  again, — at  home. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  141 


To  Laura,  two  Years  of  Age. — N.  P.  Willis. 

Bright  be  the  skies  that  cover  thee, 

Child  of  the  sunny  brow — 
Bright  as  the  dream  flung  over  thee 

By  all  that  meets  thee  now. 
Thy  heart  is  beating  joyously, 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  bird's, 
And  sweetly  breaks  the  melody 

Of  thy  imperfect  words. 
I  know  no  fount  that  gushes  out 
As  gladly  as  thy  tiny  shout. 

I  would  that  thou  might'st  ever  be 

As  beautiful  as  now, — 
That  Time  might  ever  leave  as  free 

Thy  yet  unwritten  brow, — 
I  would  life  were  "  all  poetry," 

To  gentle  measure  set, 
That  nought  but  chastened  melody 

Might  stain  thine  eye  of  jet — 
Nor  one  discordant  note  be  spoken, 
Till  God  the  cunning  harp  hath  broken. 

I  would — but  deeper  things  than  these 

With  woman's  lot  are  wove, 
Wrought  of  intenser  sympathies, 

And  nerved  by  purer  love. 
By  the  strong  spirit's  discipline, 

By  the  fierce  wrong  forgiven, 
By  all  that  wrings  the  heart  of  sin, 

Is  woman  won  to  Heaven. 
"  Her  lot  is  on  thee,"  lovely  child — 
God  keep  thy  spirit  undefiled ! 

I  fear  thy  gentle  loveliness, 

Thy  witching  tone  and  air  ; 
Thine  eye's  beseeching  earnestness 

May  be  to  thee  a  snare. 
The  silver  stars  may  purely  shine, 

The  waters  taintless  flow — 
But  they  who  kneel  at  woman's  shrine 

Breathe  on  it  as  they  bow — 


142  COMMOX-I'LACE    HOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Ye  may  fling*  back  the  gift  again, 

But  the  crushed  flower  will  leave  a  stain. 

What  shall  preserve  thee,  beautiful  child? 

Keep  thee  as  thou  art  now  ? 
Bring  thee,  a  spirit  undented, 

At  God's  pure  throne  to  bow  ? 
The  world  is  but  a  broken  reed, 

And  life  grows  early  dim  : 
Who  shall  be  near  thee  in  thy  need, 

To  lead  thee  up — to  Him  ? 
He,  who  himself  was  "  undefiled  :" 
With  him  we  trust  thee,  beautiful  child ! 


The  dead  Leaves  strew  the  Forest-walk. — Brainard. 

The  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest-walk, 

And  withered  are  the  pale  wild-flowers  ; 
The  frost  hangs  blackening  on  the  stalk, 

The  dew-drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  spring's  green,  sprouting  bowers, 
Gone  summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours, 
On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I  learned  a  clear  and  wild-toned  note, 

That  rose  and  swelled  from  yonder  tree — 
A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat, 

There  perched,  and  raised  her  song  for  me/ 

The  winter  comes,  and  where  is  she  ? 
Away where  summer  wings  will  rove, 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 

Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes  there  ; 
The  northern  breeze,  that  rustles  by, 

Finds  leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair ; 

No  forest- tree  stands  stript  and  bare, 
No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead, 

No  mountain-top,  with  sleety  hair, 
Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  143 

Go  there  with  all  the  birds, — and  seek 

A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight; 
Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek; 

And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 

Til  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light, 
And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone — 

See — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Feel — that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone  ! 


Seasojis  of  Prayer. — Henry  Ware,  Jr. 

To  prayer,  to  prayer ; — for  the  morning  breaks, 
And  earth  in  her  Maker's  smile  awakes. 
His  light  is  on  all  below  and  above, 
The  light  of  gladness,  and  life,  and  love. 
O,  then,  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air, 
Send  upward  the  incense  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer ; — for  the  glorious  sun  is  gone, 
And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on. 
Like  a  curtain  from  God's  kind  hand  it  flows, 
To  shade  the  couch  where  his  children  repose. 
Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright, 
And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of  night. 

To  prayer ; — for  the  day  that  God  has  blessed 
Comes  tranquilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 
It  speaks  of  creation's  early  bloom; 
It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb. 
Then  summon  the  spirit's  exalted  powers, 
And  devote  to  Heaven  the  hallowed  hours. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eye3, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

O,  hour  of  bliss  !  when  the  heart  o'erflows 

With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows. 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  heaven  for  her  precious  care. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling  hand. 
What  trying  thougjbis  in  her  bosom  swell, 
As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell ! 


144  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair, 
And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer. 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner's  side, 
And  pray  for  his  soul  through  him  who  died. 
Large  drops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow- 
CD,  what  is  earth  and  its  pleasures  now  ! 
And  what  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair, 
But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer  ? 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  departing  faith, 

And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 

He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  eye  that  upwards  bends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  calm,  confiding  air; 

For  his  last  thoughts  are  God's,  his  last  words  prayer. 

The  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier  ! 

A  voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer. 

It  commends  the  spirit  to  God  who  gave  ; 

It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold,  dark  grave  ; 

It  points  to  the  glory  where  he  shall  reign, 

Who  whispered,  "  Thy  brother  shall  rise  again." 

The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  world  of  bliss ! 
But  gladder,  purer,  than  rose  from  this. 
The  ransomed  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
Where  no  sorrow  shades  the  soul  as  they  sing; 
But  a  sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise ; 
And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 

Awake,  awake,  and  gird  up  thy  strength 

To  join  that  holy  band  at  length. 

To  him  who  unceasing  love  displays, 

Whom  the  powers  of  nature  unceasingly  praise, 

To  Him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given ; 

For  a  life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  heaven. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  145 


Effect  of  the  Ocean  and  its  Scenery  on  the  Mind  of  the 
Buccaneer  when  agitated  with  Remorse  for  his  Crime. — 
Richard  H.  Dana. 

Who's  yonder  on  that  long,  black  ledge, 

Which  makes  so  far  into  the  sea  ? 

See  !  there  he  sits,  and  pulls  the  sedge — 

Poor,  idle  Matthew  Lee  ! 
So  weak  and  pale  ?  A  year  and  little  more, 
And  thou  didst  lord  it  bravely  round  this  shore! 

And  on  the  shingles  now  he  sits, 

And  rolls  the  pebbles  'neath  his  hands ; 

Now  walks  the  beach  ;  then  stops  by  fits, 

And  scores  the  smooth,  wet  sands  ; 
Then  tries  each  cliff,  and  cove,  and  jut,  that  bounds 
The  isle  ;  then  home  from  many  weary  rounds. 

They  ask  him  why  he  wanders  so, 

From  day  to  day,  the  uneven  strand  ? — 

"  I  wish,  I  wish  that  I  might  go! 

But  I  would  go  by  land  ; 
And  there's  no  way  that  I  can  find — I've  tried 
All  day  and  night!" — He  looked  towards  sea,  and  sighed. 

It  brought  the  tear  to  many  an  eye, 

That,  once,  his  eye  had  made  to  quail. 

"  Lee,  go  with  us;  our  sloop  rides  nigh; 

Come  !  help  us  hoist  her  sail." 
He  shook. — "  You  know  the  spirit-horse  I  ride ! 
He'll  let  me  on  the  sea  with  none  beside  !" 

Lie  views  the  ships  that  come  and  go, 

Looking  so  like  to  living  things. 

O  !  'tis  a  proud  and  gallant  show 

Of  bright  and  broad-spread  wings 
Flinging  a  glory  round  them,  as  they  keep 
Their  course  right  onward  through  the  unsounded  deep. 

And  where  the  far-off  sand-bars  lift 
Their  backs  in  long  and  narrow  line, 
The  breakers  shout,  and  leap,  and  shift, 
And  send  the  sparkling  brine 
13 


146  COMMON-PLACE    BUUK    OF    POETRY- 

Into  the  air ;  then  rush  to  mimic  strife  : — 

Glad  creatures  of  the  sea  !  How  all  seems  life  ! — 

But  not  to  Lee.     He  sits  alone  ; 

No  fellowship  nor  joy  for  him. 

Borne  down  by  wo,  he  makes  no  moan, 

Though  tears  will  sometimes  dim 
That  asking  eye. — 0,  how  his  worn  thoughts  crave — 
Not  joy  again,  but  rest  within  the  grave. 

The  rocks  are  dripping  in  the  mist 

That  lies  so  heavy  off  the  shore. 

Scarce  seen  the  running  breakers ; — list 

Their  dull  and  smothered  roar  ! 
Lee  hearkens  to  their  voice. — "  I  hear,  I  hear 
You  call. — Not  yet! — I  know  my  time  is.  near!" 

And  now  the  mist  seems  taking  shape, 

Forming  a  dim,  gigantic  ghost, — 

Enormous  thing  ! — There's  no  eseape  ; 

'Tis  close  upon  the  coast. 
Lee  kneels,  but  cannot  pray. — Why  mock  him  so  ? 
The  ship  has  cleared  the  fog,  Lee,  see  her  go ! 

A  sweet,  low  voice,  in  starry  nights, 

Chants  to  his  ear  a  plaining  song. 

Its  tones  come  winding  up  those  heights, 

Telling  of  wo  and  wrong ; 
And  he  must  listen,  till  the  stars  grow  dim, 
The  song  that  gentle  voice  doth  sing  to  him. 

O,  it  is  sad  that  aught  so  mild 

Should  bind  the  soul  with  bands  of  fear ; 

That  strains  to  soothe  a  little  child 

The  man  should  dread  to  hear  ! 
But  sin  hath  broke  the  world's  sweet  peace — unstrung 
The  harmonious  chords  to  which  the  angels  sung. 

In  thick,  dark  nights,  he'd  take  his  seat 

High  up  the  cliffs,  and  feel  them  shake, 

As  swung  the  sea  with  heavy  beat 

Below — and  hear  it  break 
With  savage  roar,  then  pause  and  gather  strength. 
And,  then,  come  tumbling  in  its  swollen  length. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  147 

But  thou  no  more  shalt  haunt  the  beach, 

Nor  sit  upon  the  tall  cliff's  crown, 

Nor  go  the  round  of  all  that  reach, 

Nor  feebly  sit  thee  down, 
Watching  the  swaying  weeds  : — another  day, 
And  thou'lt  have  gone  far  hence  that  dreadful  way. 


The  third  and  last  Appearance  of  the  Spectre  Horse  and  the 
Burning  Ship. — Richard  H.  Dana. 

To-night  the  charmed  number's  told. 

"  Twice  have  I  come  for  thee,"  it  said. 

**  Once  more,  and  none  shall  thee  behold. 

Come  !  live  one,  to  the  dead  !" — 
So  hears  his  soul,  and  fears  the  coming  night; 
Yet  sick  and  weary  of  the  soft,  calm  light. 

Again  he  sits  within  that  room ; 

All  day  he  leans  at  that  still  board  ; 

None  to  bring  comfort  to  his  gloom, 

Or  speak  a  friendly  word. 
Weakened  with  fear,  lone,  haunted  by  remorse, 
Poor,  shattered  wretch,  there  waits  he  that  pale  horse. 

Not  long  he'll  wait. — Where  now  are  gone 

Peak,  citadel,  and  tower,  that  stood 

Beautiful,  while  the  west  sun  shone 

And  bathed  them  in  his  flood 
Of  airy  glory  ? — Sudden  darkness  fell ; 
And  down  they  sank,  peak,  tower,  and  citadel. 

The  darkness,  like  a  dome  of  stone, 

Ceils  up  the  heavens. — 'Tis  hush  as  death — 

All  but  the  ocean's  dull,  low  moan. 

How  hard  Lee  draws  his  breath ! 
He  shudders  as  he  feels  the  working  Power. 
Arouse  thee,  Lee  !  up  ;  man  thee  for  thine  hour ! — 

'Tis  close  at  hand ;  for  there,  once  more, 
The  burning  ship.     Wide  sheets  of  flame 
And  shafted  fire  she  showed  before ; 
Twice  thus  she  hither  came  ; — 


148  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

But  now  she  rolls  a  naked  hulk,  and  throws 
A  wasting  light;  then,  settling,  down  she  goes. 

And  where  she  sank,  up  slowly  came 

The  Spectre-Horse  from  out  the  sea. 

And  there  he  stands !     His  pale  sides  flame. 

He'll  meet  thee  shortly,  Lee. 
He  treads  the  waters  as  a  solid  floor : 
He's  moving  on.     Lee  waits  him  at  the  dooi\ 

They've  met. — "  I  know  thou  com'st  for  me," 

Lee's  spirit  to  the  spectre  said — 

"  I  know  that  I  must  go  with  thee — 

Take  me  not  to  the  dead. 
It  was  not  I  alone  that  did  the  deed!" 
Dreadful  the  eye  of  that  still,  spectral  steed ! 

Lee  cannot  turn.     There  is  a  force 

In  that  fixed  eye,  which  holds  him  fast. 

How  still  they  stand! — that  man  and  horse. 

— "Thine  hour  is  almost  past." 
"  0,  spare  me,"  cries  the  wretch,  "  thou  fearful  one  !" — 
"  My  time  is  full — I  must  not  go  alone." 

"  I'm  weak  and  faint.     0,  let  me  stay  !" 

— "  Nay,  murderer,  rest  nor  stay  for  thee  !" 

The  horse  and  man  are  on  their  way ; 

He  bears  him  to  the  sea. 
Hark!  how  the  spectre  breathes  through  this  still  night! 
See  !  from  his  nostrils  streams  a  deathly  light !. 

He's  on  the  beach ;  but  stops  not  there. 

He's  on  the  sea  ! — Lee,  quit  the  horse  ! 

Lee  struggles  hard. — 'Tis  mad  despair! — 

'Tis  vain !     The  spirit-corse 
Holds  him  by  fearful  spell ; — he  cannot  leap. 
Within  that  horrid  light  he  rides  the  deep. 

It  lights  the  sea  around  their  track — 
The  curling  comb,  and  dark  steel  wave : 
There,  yet,  sits  Lee  the  spectre's  back — 
Gone  !  gone  !  and  none  to  save  ! 

They're  seen  no  more ;  the  night  has  shut  them  in. 

May  Heaven  have  pity  on  thee,  man  of  sin! 


COMMON-PLACE    HOOK    OF    POKTRY.  149 

The  earth  has  washed  away  its  stain. 

The  sealed  up  sky  is  breaking  forth, 

Mustering  its  glorious  hosts  again 

From  the  far  south  and  north. 
The  climbing  moon  plays  on  the  rippling  sea. — 
O,  wrhither  on  its  waters  rideth  Lee  ? 


God's  first  Temples.     A  Hymn. — Bryant. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems, — in  the  darkling  w^ood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest,  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 
That,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that,  high  in  heaven, 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  Power 
And  inaccessible  Majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  wre,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised !     Let  me,  at  least, 
Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns ;  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till  at  last  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
13* 


150  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 

Communion  with  his  Maker.     Here  are  seen 

No  traces  of  man's  pomp  or  pride  ; — no  silks 

Rustle,  no  jewels  shine,  nor  envious  eyes 

Encounter ;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 

The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 

Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  fill'st 

The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 

That  run  along  the  summits  of  these  trees 

In  music  ; — thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 

That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 

Comes,  scarcely  felt ; — the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 

The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship  ; — nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  'midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly 'forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace, 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  the  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal,  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower, 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works,  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die  :  but  sec,  again, 


COMMON-PLACE    DOOK    OF    POETRY.  151 

How,  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay, 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     O,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :   upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  sepulchre,  and  blooms  and  smiles, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men,  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men, 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and,  in  thy  presence,  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink, 
And  tremble,  and  are  still.     O  God  !   when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift,  dark  whirlwind,  that  uproots  the  woods, 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  Deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities  ; — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face, 
Spare  me  and  mine  ;  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And,  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works, 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


16'Z  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Scene  from  Hadad* — Hillhouse. 
An  apartment  in  Absalom's  house.     Nathan  and  Tamar. 

Nathan.     Thou'rt  left  to-day,  (would  thou  wert  ever  left 
Of  some  that  haunt  thee  !)  therefore  am  I  come 
To  give  thee  counsel. — Child  of  sainted  Miriam, 
Fear  not  to  look  upon  me  ;  thou  wilt  hear 
The  gentle  voice  of  love,  not  stern  monition. 
Commune  with  me  as  with  a  tender  parent, 
Who  cares  for  all  thy  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 
Though  prizing  thy  immortal  gem  above 
The  transitory. 

Tamar.     Have  I  not  thus,  ever  ? 

JVath.     But  I  would  probe  the  tenderest  of  thy  heart, 
Touch  its  disease,  and  give  it  strength  again, 
And  yet  inflict  no  pain. 

Tarn.     What  nieans  my  lord  ? 

JVath.     1  know  thee  pure,  and  guileless  as  the  dove  ; 
The  easier  prey ;  and  thou  art  fair,  to  tempt 
The  spoiler — nay,  be  not  alarmed,  but  speak 
Openly  to  me.     I  would  ask  thee,  princess, 
If  not  displeasing,  somewhat  of  the  stranger, 
The  Syrian,  who  aspires  to  David's  line. 

Tarn,     (averting  her  eyes.) 
If  I  can  answer 

JVath.     Maiden,  need  I  ask, — 

I  fear  I  need  not, — is  he  dear  to  thee  ? 

'Tis  well.     But  tell  me,  hast  thou  ever  noted, 
Amidst  his  many  shining  qualities, 
Aught  strange  or  singular  ? — unlike  to  others  ? — 
That  caused  thy  wonder  ? — even  to  thyself, 
Moved  thee  to  say,  How  !  Wherefore's  this  ? 

Tarn.     Never. 

JVath.     Nothing  that  marked  him  from  the  rest  of  men? — 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  why  thus  I  question. 

Tarn.     O  yes,  unlike  he  seems  in  many  things  ; 
In  knowledge,  eloquence,  high  thoughts. 

JVath.     Proud  thoughts 
Thou  mean'st. 

Tarn.     I'm  but  a  young  and  simple  maid; 
But,  father,  he,  of  all  my  ears  have  judged, 
Is  master  of  the  loftiest,  richest  mind. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  153 

JVath.     How  have  I  wronged  him  !  deeming  him  more  apt 
For  intricate  designs,  and  daring  deeds, 
Than  contemplation's  solitary  flights. 

Tarn.     Seer,  his  far-soaring  thoughts  ascend  the  stars, 
Pierce  the  unseen  abyss,  pervade,  like  light, 
The  universe,  and  wing  the  infinite. 

JVath.     {fixing  his  eyes  upon  her.) 
What  stores  of  love,  and  praise,  and  gratitude, 
He  thence  must  bring  to  Him,  whose  mighty  hand 
Fashioned  their  glories,  hung  yon  golden  orbs 
Amidst  his  wondrous  firmament ;  who  bids 
The  day-spring  know  his  place,  and  sheds  from  all 
Sweet  influences ;  who  bars  the  haughty  sea, 
Binds  fast  his  dreadful  hail,  but  drops  the  dew 
Nightly  upon  his  people  !     How  his  soul, 
Returning  from  its  quest  through  earth  and  heaven, 
Must  glow  with  holy  fervor  ! — Doth  it,  maiden  ? 

Tarn.     Ah,  father,  father  !  were  it  so  indeed, 
I  were  too  happy. 

JVath.     How  ! — expound  thy  words. 

Tarn.     Though  he  has  trod  the  confines  of  the  world, 
Knows  all  its  wonders,  and  almost  has  pierced 
The  secrets  of  eternity,  his  heart 
Is  melancholy,  lone,  discordant,  save 
When  love  attunes  it  into  happiness. 
He  hath  not  found,  alas  i  the  peace  which  dwells 
But  with  our  fathers'  God. 

JVath.     And  canst  thou  love 
One  who  loves  not  Jehovah  ? 

Tarn.     O,  ask  not. 

jXath.     (fervently.) 
My  child,  thou  wouldst  not  wed  an  infidel  ? 

Tarn,     (in  tears.)     0  no  !  0  no ! 

J\rath.     Why,  then,  this  embassage  ?     Why  doth  your  sire 
Still  urge  the  king  ?     Why  hast  thou  hearkened  it? 

Tarn.     There  was  a  time  when  I  had  hopes, — when  truth 
Seemed  dawning  in  his  mind — and  sometimes,  still, 
Such  heavenly  glimpses  shine,  that  my  fond  heart 
Refuses  to  forego  the  hope,  at  last, 
To  number  him  with  Israel. 

JVath.     Beware ! 
Or  thou'lt  delude  thy  soul  to  ruin.     Say, 
Doth  he  attend  our  holy  ordinances  ? 

Tarn.     He  promises  observance. 


154  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

JVath.     Two  full  years 
Hath  he  abode  in  Jewry. 

Tarn.     Prophet,  think 
How  he  was  nurtured — in  the  faith  of  idols. — 
That  impious  worship  long  since  he  abjured 
By  his  own  native  strength ;  and  now  he  looks 
Abroad  through  nature's  works,  and  yet  must  rise — 

JVath.     Speaks  he  of  Moses  ? 

Tarn.     Familiar  as  thyself. 

JVath.     I  think  thou  said'st  he  had  surveyed  the  world  ? 

Tain.     From  Ethiopia  to  the  farthest  East, 
Cities,  and  tribes,  and  nations.     He  can  speak 
Of  hundred-gated  Thebes,  towered  Babylon, 
And  mightier  Nineveh,  vast  Palibothra, 
Serendib  anchored  by  the  gates  of  morning, 
Renowned  Benares,  where  the  sages  teach 
The  mystery  of  the  soul,  and  that  famed  seat 
Where  fleets  and  warriors  from  Elishah's  Isles 
Besieged  the  Beauty,  where  great  Memnon  fell ; — 
Of  temples,  groves,  and  superstitious  caves 
Filled  with  strange  symbols  of  the  Deity  ; 
Of  wondrous  mountains,  desert-circled  seas, 
Isles  of  the  ocean,  lovely  Paradises, 
Set,  like  unfading  emeralds,  in  the  deep. 
.  JVath.     Yet  manhood  scarce  confirms  his  cheek. 

Tarn.     All  this 
His  thirst  of  knowledge  has  achieved  ;  the  wish 
To  gather  from  the  wise  eternal  truth. 

JVath.     Not  found  where  he  has  sought  it,  and  has  led 
Thy  wandering  fancy. 

Tarn.     O,  might  I  relate — 
But  I  bethink  me,  father,  of  a  thing 
Like  that  you  asked.     Sometimes,  when  I'm  alone, 
Just  ere  his  coming,  I  have  heard  a  sound, 
A  strange,  mysterious,  melancholy  sound, 
Like  music  in  the  air.     Anon  he  enters. 

JVath.     Ha!  is  this  oft  ? 

Tarn.     'Tis  not  unfrcquent. 

JVath.     Only 
When  thou'rt  alone  ? 

Tarn.     I  have  not  heard  it  else. 

JVath.     A  sound  like  what? 

Tarn.     Like  wild,  sad  music,  father ; 
More  moving  than  the  lute  or  viol  touched 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  155 

By  skilful  fingers.     Wailing  in  the  air, 

It  seems  around  me,  and  withdraws  as  when 

One  looks  and  lingers  for  a  last  adieu. 

JVath.     Just  ere  he  enters? 

Tarn.     At  his  step  it  dies. 

Nath.     Mark  me. — Thou  know'st  'tis  held  by  righteous 
men, 
That  Heaven  intrusts  us  all  to  watching  spirits, 
Who  ward  us  from  the  tempter. — This  I  deem 
Some  intimation  of  an  unseen  danger. 

Tarn.     But  whence  ? 

JVath.     Time  may  reveal :  meanwhile,  I  warn  thee, 
Trust  not  thyself  alone  with  Hadad. 

Tarn.     Father,— 

J\"ath.     I  lay  not  to  his  charge  ;  I  know,  in  sooth, 
Little  of  him,  (though  I  have  supplicated,) 
And  will  not  wound  thee  with  a  dark  suspicion 
But  shun  the  peril  thou  art  warned  of;  shun 
What  looks  like  danger,  though  we  haply  err : 
Be  not  alone  with  him,  I  charge  thee. 

Tarn.     Seer, 
I  will  avoid  it. 

JVath.     All  is  ominous  : 
The  oracles  are  mute,  dreams  warn  no  more, 
Urim  and  Thummiin  keep  their  glory  hid ; 
My  days  are  dark,  my  nights  are  visionless ; 
Jehovah  hath  forsaken,  or,  in  wrath, 
Resigned  us  for  a  season.     Times  like  these 
Are  jubilee  in  hell.     Fiends  walk  the  earth, 
Misleading  princes,  tempting  poor  men's  pillows, 
Supplying  moody  hatred  with  the  dagger, 
Lust  with  occasions,  treason  with  excuses, 
Lifting  man's  heart,  like  the  rebellious  waves, 
Against  his  Maker.     Watch,  and  pray,  and  tremble  ; 
So  may  the  Highest  overshadow  thee ! 

[Exit  JVath.'] 

Tam.     His  awful  accents  freeze  my  blood. — Alas  ! 
How  desolate,  how  dark  my  prospect  lowers ! — 
O  Hadad,  is  it  thus  those  sunny  days, 
Those  sweet  deceptive  hopes,  must  terminate, 
When,  mixing  in  thy  gentle  looks,  I  saw 
Love  blend  with  reverence,  as  my  lips  described 
The  power,  the  patience,  purity,  and  faith 
Of  our  Almighty  Father  ?     Then,  I  thought 
Thy  spirit,  softened  by  its  earthly  passion, 


156  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POr/iil* 

Meetly  refined,  and  tempered,  to  receive 

The  impression  of  a  love  which  never  dies. 

How  art  thou  changed  !     All  tenderness  you  seemed, 

Gentle  and  social  as  a  playful  child ; 

But  now,  in  lofty  meditation  wrapped. 

As  on  an  icy  mountain-top  thou  sit'st 

Lonely  and  unapproachable,  or  tossest 

Upon  the  surge  of  passion,  like  the  wreck 

Of  some  proud  Tynan  in  the  stormy  sea. 


Extract  from  u  The  Airs  of  Palestine.'''1 — Pierpo:vt. 

On  Arno's  bosom,  as  he  calmly  flows, 
And  his  cool  arms  round  Yallombrosa  throws, 
Rolling  his  crystal  tide  through  classic  vales, 
Alone, — at  night, — the  Italian  boatman  sails. 
High  o'er  Mont  Alto  walks,  in  maiden  pride, 
Night's  queen: — he  sees  her  image,  on  that  tide, 
Now,  ride  the  wave  that  curls  its  infant  crest 
Around  his  brow,  then  rippling  sinks  to  rest; 
Now,  glittering,  dance  around  his  eddying  oar, 
Whose  every  sweep  is  echoed  from  the  shore; 
Now,  far  before  him,  on  a  liquid  bed 
Of  waveless  water,  rests  her  radiant  head. 
How  mild  the  empire  of  that  virgin  queen! 
How  dark  the  mountain's  shade  !   How  still  the  scene  ! 
Hushed  by  her  silver  sceptre,  zephyrs  sleep 
On  dewy  leaves,  that  overhang  the  deep, 
Nor  dare  to  whisper  through  the  boughs,  nor  stir 
The  valley's  willow,  nor  the  mountain's  fir. 
Nor  make  the  pale  and  breathless  aspen  quiver. 
Nor  brush,  with  ruffling  wing,  that  glassy  river. 

Hark  ! — 'tis  a  convent's  bell : — its  midnight  chime  : 
For  music  measures  even  the  march  of  time  : — 
O'er  bending  trees,  that  fringe  the  distant  shore, 
Gray  turrets  rise  : — the  eye  can  catch  no  more. 
•The  boatman,  listening  to  the  tolling  bell, 
Suspends  his  oar ; — a  low  and  solemn  swell, 
From  the  deep  shade,  that  round  the  cloister  lies, 
Rolls  through  the  air,  and  on  the  water  dies. 
What  melting  song  wakes  the  cold  ear  of  night  ? 
A  funeral  dirge,  that  pale  nuns,  robed  in  white, 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  TOETRY.       157 

Chant  round  a  sister's  dark  and  narrow  bed, 
To  charm  the  parting  spirit  of  the  dead. 
Triumphant  is  the  spell !   With  raptured  ear, 
That  uncaged  spirit,  hovering,  lingers  near: — 
Why  should  she  mount  ?  why  pant  for  brighter  bliss, 
A  lovelier  scene,  a  sweeter  song,  than  this  ? 


The  Falls  of  Niagara. — Braijcward. 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  "  hollow  hand," 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front ; 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seemed  to  him, 
Who  dwelt  ;»n  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
"  The  sounl  of  many  waters  ;"  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  cent'ries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 

Deep  caHeth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
O,  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side ! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make, 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar ! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him, 
Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ? — a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 


At  Musing  Hour. — Thomas  Wells 

A  r  musing  hour  of  twilight  gray, 
When  silence  reigns  around, 

I  love  to  walk  the  churchyard  way  : 
To  me  'tis  holy  ground. 

To  me,  congenial  is  the  place 
Where  yew  and  cypress  grow ; 

I  love  the  moss-grown  stone  to  trace, 
That  tells  who  lies  below. 
14 


158  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And,  as  the  lonely  spot  I  pass 
Where  weary  ones  repose, 

I  think,  like  them,  how  soon,  alas ' 
My  pilgrimage  will  close. 

Like  them,  I  think,  when  I  am  gone, 
And  soundly  sleep  as  they, 

Alike  unnoticed  and  unknown 
Shall  pass  my  name  away. 

Yet,  ah  ! — and  let  me  lightly  tread ! — 
She  sleeps  beneath  this  stone, 

That  would  have  soothed  my  dying  bed, 
And  wept  for  me  when  gone  ! 

Her  image  'tis — to  memory  dear— 
That  clings  around  my  heart, 

And  makes  me  fondly  linger  here, 
Unwilling  to,  depart. 


Evergreens. — Pinkney. 

When  summer's  sunny  hues  adorn 
Sky,  forest,  hill  and  meadow, 

The  foliage  of  the  evergreens, 
In  contrast,  seems  a  shadow. 

But  when  the  tints  of  autumn  have 

Their  sober  reign  asserted, 
The  landscape  that  cold  shadow  shows 

Into  a  light  converted. 

Thus  thoughts  that  frown  upon  our  mirth 

Will  smile  upon  our  sorrow, 
And  many  dark  fears  of  to-day 

May  be  bright  hopes  to-morrow. 


The  Flower  Spirit. — Anonymous. 

I  am  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  flower ; 
Mine  is  the  exquisite  music  that  flies, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  159 

When  silence  and  moonlight  reign  over  each  bower, 

That  blooms  in  the  glory  of  tropical  skies. 
I  woo  the  bird  with  his  melody  glowing 

To  leap  in  the  sunshine,  and  warble  its  strain, 
And  mine  is  the  odor,  in  turn,  that  bestowing, 

The  songster  is  paid  for  his  music  again. 

There  dwells  no  sorrow  where  I  am  abiding ; 

Care  is  a  stranger,  and  troubles  us  not ; 
And  the  winds,  as  they  pass,  when  too  hastily  riding, 

I  woo,  and  they  tenderly  glide  o'er  the  spot. 
They  pause,  and  we  glow  in  their  rugged  embraces, 

They  drink  our  warm  breath,  rich  with  odor  and  song, 
Then  hurry  away  to  their  desolate  places, 

And  look  for  us  hourly,  and  think  of  us  long. 

Who  of  the  dull  earth  that's  moving  around  us, 

Would  ever  imagine,  that,  nursed  in  a  rose, 
At  the  opening  of  spring,  our  destiny  found  us 

A  prisoner  until  the  first  bud  should  unclose  ; 
Then,  as  the  dawn  of  light  breaks  upon  us, 

Our  winglets  of  silk  we  unfold  to  the  air, 
And  leap  offin  joy  to  the  music  that  won  us, 

And  made  us  the  tenants  of  climates  so  fair ! 


"  Man  giveth  up  the  Ghost,  and  where  is  he?"- 
Christian  Examiner. 

I  stand  among  the  dark-gray  stones ; 

No  living  thing  is  near  ; 
Beneath  me  are  the  mouldering  bones 

Of  those  who  once  were  here. 

And  here,  perhaps,  they  mused  like  me, 

And  heard  the  grave  declare, 
On  every  side,  its  victory, 

And  saw  how  frail  they  were. 

Like  me,  they  felt  that  sense  is  nought, 

That  passion  is  a  dream, 
That  pleasure's  bark,  though  richly  fraught, 

Must  sink  beneath  the  stream. 


160  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Yet  sense  and  passion  held  them  slaves, 

And  lashed  them  to  the  oar, 
Till  they  were  wrecked  upon  their  graves, 

And  then  they  rose  no  more ! 

Perhaps,  like  them,  I,  too,  shall  go, 

Nor  heed  my  coming  doom, 
And  every  trace  of  me  below 

Be  swept  into  the  tomb. 

And  yet  I  would  not  live  in  vain, 

By  earthly  pleasures  cloyed, 
Or  render  back  to  God  again 

My  talent  unemployed. 

0  God  of  mercy,  make  me  know 
The  gift  which  thou  hast  given, 

Nor  let  me  idly  spend  it  so, 
But  make  it  fit  for  heaven ! 


Woods  in  Winter. — Longfellow. 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  white-thorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  over-brows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

On  the  gray  maple's  crusted  bark 
Its  tender  shoots  the  hoar-frost  nips ; 

Whilst  in  the  frozen  fountain — hark ! — 
His  piercing  beak  the  bittern  dips. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, — 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 


COMMOX-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  161 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 

Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 
Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 

When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay ; 
And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 

And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day ! 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods,  within  your  crowd; 
And  gathered  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs,  and  wintry  winds,  my  ear 

Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 
I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year — 

I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


A  Last  Wish. — Anonymous. 

When  breath  and  sense  have  left  this  clay, 

In  yon  damp  vault,  O,  lay  me  not ! 
But  kindly  bear  my  bones  away 

To  some  lone,  green,  and  sunny  spot ; 
Where  few  shall  be  the  feet  that  tread, 

With  reckless  haste,  upon  my  grave ; 
And  gently,  o'er  my  last,  still  bed, 

To  whispering  winds,  the  grass  shall  wave. 
The  wild  flowers,  too,  I  loved  so  well, 

Shall  blow,  and  breathe  their  sweetness  there. 
And  all  around  my  grave  shall  tell, 

"  She  felt  that  nature's  face  was  fair." 
And  those  that  come  because  they  loved 

The  mouldering  frame  that  lies  below, 
Shall  find  their  anguish  half  removed, 

While  that  sweet  spot  shall  soothe  their  wo. 
The  notes  of  happy  birds  alone 

Shall  there  disturb  the  silent  air; 
And  when  the  cheerful  sun  goes  down, 

His  beams  shall  linger  longest  there. 
And  if, — when  soft  night  breezes  wake, 
14* 


162  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Roving  among  the  sleeping  flowers, 
When  dews  their  airy  home  forsake, 

To  rest  till  morn  in  earthly  bowers, — 
If,  then,  some  dearer  friend  than  all 

Steal  to  my  grave  to  weep  awhile, 
And  happier  hours  awhile  recall, 

And  bid  fond  memory  beguile 
The  tediousness  of  cherished  grief — 

Faintly  descried — a  fading  ray — 
My  passing  ghost  shall  breathe  relief, 

And  whisper — "  Lingerer,  come  away  !" 


The  Winged  Worshippers. — Charles  Sprague. 

Gay,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  r 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear  - 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep . 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay, 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  163 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  heaven  indeed, 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


Death  of  an  Infant. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Death  found  strange  beauty  on  that  cherub  brow, 
And  dashed  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip ; — he  touched  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded.     Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness, — a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  can  wear.     With  ruthless  haste,  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  their  curtaining  lids 
Forever.     There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound, 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
His  seal  of  silence.     But  there  beamed  a  smile 
So  fixed  and  holy  from  that  marble  brow, — 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there  ;— he  dared  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  Heaven. 


Burns. — F.  G.  Halleck. 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 
A  nation's  glory,  and  her  shame, 

In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 


164  COMMOX-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

Where  the  bard-peasant  first  drew  breath, 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 
The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 

To  that  bard-peasant  given. 

******** 
There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 

And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 
And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 

Purer  and  holier  fires. 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death, — 
Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there, 

And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 
Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek;  * 

And  his,  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

******** 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "  Auld  lang  Syne"  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  jTouth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.       165 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 


Praise  to  the  bard  ! — His  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven; 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man ! — A  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes, 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homr.ge  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  gf  ound. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  half  owed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories, 
Though  with  th<;  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined, — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  Wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 
Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors,  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour  ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 

Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, — 
Are  there— o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 

From  countries  near  and  far  ; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
M7  own  green  forest-land, 


166  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Doon's  low  trees, 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries ! 
The  poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urns  ? 

Wear  they  not,  graven  on  the  heart, 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 


Mary  Magdalen. — Bryant. 

From  the  Spanish  of  Bartolome  Leonardo  de  Argensola. 

Blessed,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken-hearted! 
The  crowd  are  pointing  at  the  thing  forlorn, 

In  wonder  and  in  scorn ! 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed  ; 
Thou  weepest,  and  thy  tears  have  power  to  move 

The  Lord  to  pity  and  love. 

The  greatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven, 
Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 

On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 
Thou  didst  kneel  down  to  him  who  came  from  heaven, 
Evil  and  ignorant,  and  thou  shalt  rise 

Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 

It  is  not  much,  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 
The  ragged  brier  should  change,  the  bitter  fir 

Distil  Arabian  myrrh ; 
Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom, 
The  harvest  should  rise  plenteous,  and  the  swain 

Bear  home  the  abundant  grain. 

But  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  mountains 
Thick  to  their  tops  with  roses ;  come  and  see 
Leaves  on  the  dry,  dead  tree  : 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  1G7 

The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  fountains, 
Grows  fruitful,  and  its  beauteous  branches  rise, 
For  ever,  towards  the  skies. 


Be  humble. — Jones. 

Triumph  not,  frail  man ;  thou  art 

Too  weak  a  thing  to  boast ; 
Thou  hast  a  sad  and  foolish  heart ; 

Misdeeds  are  all  thou  dost. 
Thou  seem'st  most  proud  of  thine  offence  ; 
Thou  sinn'st  e'en  where  thou  want'st  pretence. 

Triumph  not,  though  nothing  warns 

Of  vigor  waning  fast ; 
Remember  roses  fade,  but  thorns 

Survive  the  wintry  blast. 
A  pleasant  morn,  a  sultry  noon, 
Foretell  the  tempest  rising  soon. 

Triumph  not,  though  fortune  sends 

The  riches  of  the  mine  ; 
If  then  thou  countest  many  friends, 

It  is  good  luck  of  thine. 
But  triumph  not :  that  gold  may  go ; 
And  friends  will  fly  in  hour  of  wo. 

And  thou  may'st  love  a  smooth,  soft  cheek, 

And  woo  a  tender  eye  : 
But  triumph  not :  a  single  week, 

And  cold  those  lips  may  lie, — 
Or,  worse,  that  trusted  heart  may  rove, 
And  leave  thee,  for  another  love. 

But  triumph,  if  thy  soul  feels  firm 

In  faith,  and  leans  on  God ; 
If  wo  bids  flourish  love's  warm  germ, 

And  thou  can'st  kiss  the  rod  ; 
Then  triumph,  man  ;  for  this  alone 
Is  cause  for  an  exulting  tone. 


168  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 


Sabbath  Evening  Twilight. — Anonymou? 

Delightful  hour  of  sweet  repose, 

Of  hallowed  thoughts,  of  love,  of  prayer  ! 
I  love  thy  deep  and  tranquil  close, 

For  all  the  Sabbath  day  is  there. 
Each  pure  desire,  each  high  request 

That  burned  before  the  temple  shrine, — 
The  hopes,  the  fears,  that  moved  the  breast, — 

All  live  again  in  light  like  thine. 

I  love  thee  for  the  fervid  glow 

Thou  shed'st  around  the  closing  day, — 
Those  golden  fires,  those  wreaths  of  snow, 

That  light  and  pave  his  glorious  way ! 
Through  them,  I've  sometimes  thought,  the  eye 

May  pierce  the  unmeasured  deeps  of  space, 
And  track  the  course  where  spirits  fly, 

On  viewless  wings,  to  realms  of  bliss. 

I  love  thee  for  the  unbroken  calm, 

That  slumbers  on  this  fading  scene, 
And  throws  its  kind  and  soothing  charm 

O'er  "  all  the  little  world  within." 
It  trances  every  roving  thought, 

Yet  sets  the  soaring  fancy  free, — 
Shuts  from  the  soul  the  present  out, 

That  all  is  musing  memory. 

I  love  those  joyous  memories, 

That  rush,  with  thee,  upon  the  soul, — 
Those  deep,  unuttered  symphonies, 

That  o'er  the  spell-bound  spirit  roll. 
All  the  bright  scenes  of  love  and  youth 

Revive,  as  if  they  had  not  fled  ; 
And  Fancy  clothes  with  seeming  truth 

The  forms  she  rescues  from  the  dead. 

Yet  holier  is  thy  peaceful  close, 

For  vows  love  left  recorded  there  ; — 

Thi3  is  the  noiseless  hour  we  chose 
To  consecrate  to  mutual  prayer. 

'Twas  when  misfortune's  fearful  cloud 
Was  gathering  o'er  the  brow  of  heaven, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  169 

Ere  yet  despair's  eternal  shroud 

Wrapped  every  vision  hope  had  given. 

When  these  deep  purpling;  shades  came  down, 

In  softened  tints,  upon  the  hills, 
We  swore,  that,  whether  fate  should  crown 

Our  future  course  with  joys  or  ills, — 
Whether  safe  moored  in  love's  retreat, 

Or  severed  wide  by  mount  and  sea, — 
This  hour,  in  spirit,  we  would  meet, 

And  urge  to  Heaven  our  mutual  plea. 


0,  tell  me  if  this  hallowed  hour 

Still  finds  thee  constant  at  our  shrine, 
Still  witnesses  thy  fervent  prayer 

Ascending  warm  and  true  with  mine ! 
Faithful  through  every  change  of  wo, 

My  heart  still  flies  to  meet  thee  there  : 
'Twould  soothe  this  weary  heart  to  know 

That  thine  responded  every  prayer. 


The  Burial  of  Arnold*— -N.  P.  Willis. 

Ye've  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer 

With  slow  and  measured  tread : 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all  there — 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  he  at  that  fearful  length, 

And  ye  around  his  pall  ? 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days,  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot-worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  gloriously, 

And  his  lip  wreathed  with  a  smile. 
0,  had  it  been  but  told  you,  then, 

To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim, 
From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipped  men, 

Would  ye  have  singled  him  ? 

*    A  member  of  the  senior  class  in  Yale  College. 
15 


! 


1 


170  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm,  which  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring  ? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung — 

Yet  not  for  glorying  ? 
Whose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and  thought, 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not  ? 

There  lies  he — go  and  look ! 

On  now — his  requiem  is  done, 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said — 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades — on, 

With  the  noblest  of  the  dead  I 
Slow — for  it  presses  heavily — 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear ! 
Slow  for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  noble  sleeper  there. 

Tread  lightly,  comrades! — we  have  laid 

His  dark  locks  on  his  brow — 
Like  life — save  deeper  light  and  shade  : 

We'll  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly — for  'tis  beautiful, 

That  blue-veined  eye-lid's- sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye  death  left  so  dull — 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Rest  now  ! — his  journeying  is  done — 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod — 
Death's  chain  is  on  your  champion — 

He  waiteth  here  his  God ! 
Ay — turn  and  weep — 'tis  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here — 
For  the  grave  of  earth's  best  nobleness 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 


Lines  to  a  Child  on    his   Voyage  to  France,  to  meet  his 
Father. — He>ry  Ware,  Jr. 

Lo,  how  impatiently  upon  the  tide 
The  proud  ship  tosses,  eager  to  be  free ! 
Her  flag  streams  wildly,  and  her  fluttering  sails 
Pant  to  be  on  their  flight.     A  few  hours  more, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  171 

And  she  will  move,  in  stately  grandeur,  on, 

Cleaving  her  path  majestic  through  the  flood, 

As  if  she  were  a  goddess  of  the  deep. 

O,  'tis  a  thought  sublime,  that  man  can  force 

A  path  upon  the  waste,  can  find  a  way 

Where  all  is  trackless,  and  compel  the  winds, 

Those  freest  agents  of  almighty  Power, 

To  lend  their  untamed  wings,  and  bear  him  on 

To  distant  climes.     Thou,  William,  still  art  young, 

And  dost  not  see  the  wonder.     Thou  wilt  tread 

The  buoyant  deck,  and  look  upon  the  flood, 

Unconscious  of  the  high  sublimity, 

As  'twere  a  common  thing — thy  soul  nnawed, 

Thy  childish  sports  unchecked  ;  while  thinking  man 

Shrinks  back  into  himself, — himself  so  mean 

'Mid  things  so  vast, — and,  rapt  in  deepest  awe, 

Bends  to  the  might  of  that  mysterious  Power, 

Who  holds  the  waters  in  his  hand,  and  guides 

The  ungovernable  winds.     'Tis  not  in  man 

To  look  unmoved  upon  that  heaving  waste, 

Which,  from  horizon  to  horizon  spread, 

Meets  the  o'er-arching  heavens  on  every  side, 

Blending  their  hues  in  distant  faintness  there. 

'Tis  wonderful ! — and  yet,  my  boy,  just  such 
Is  life.     Life  is  asea  as  fathomless, 
As  wide,  as  terrible,  and  yet,  sometimes, 
As  calm  and  beautiful.     The  light  of  heaven 
Smiles  on  it,  and  'tis  decked  with  every  hue 
Of  glory  and  of  joy.     Anon,  dark  clouds 
Arise,  contending  winds  of  fate  go  forth, 
And  Hope  sits  weeping  o'er  a  general  wreck. 

And  thou  must  sail  upon  this  sea,  a  long, 
Eventful  voyage.     The  wise  may  suffer  wreck, 
The  foolish  must.     0,  then,  be  early  wise  ; 
Learn  from  the  mariner  his  skilful  art 
To  ride  upon  the  waves,  and  catch  the  breeze, 
And  dare  the  threatening  storm,  and  trace  a  path, 
'Mid  countless  dangers,  to  the  destined  port 
Unerringly  secure.     O,  learn  from  him 
To  station  quick-eyed  Prudence  at  the  helm, 
To  guard  thyself  from  Passion's  sudden  blasts, 
And  make  Religion  thy  magnetic  guide, 


172  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Which,  though  it  tremhles  as  it  lowly  lies, 
Points  to  the  light  that  changes  not,  in  heaven. 

Farewell !  Heaven  smile  propitious  on  thy  course, 
And  favoring  breezes  waft  thee  to  the  arms 
Of  love  paternal.     Yes,  and  more  than  this — 
Blessed  be  thy  passage  o'er  the  changing  sea 
Of  life  ;  the  clouds  be  few  that  intercept 
The  light  of  joy ;  the  waves  roll  gently  on 
Beneath  thy  bark  of  hope,  and  bear  thee  safe 
To  meet  in  peace  thine  other  Father — God. 


New  England. — J.  G.  Percival. 

Hail  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread, 

Our  fondest  boast ; 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  Glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host : 
No  slave  is  here  ;  our  unchained  feet 
Walk  freely  as  the  waves  that  beat 

Our  coast. 

Our  fathers  crossed  the  ocean's  wave 

To  seek  this  shore  ; 
They  left  behind  the  coward  slave 
To  welter  in  his  living  grave  ; — 
With  hearts  unbent,  and  spirits  brave, 

They  sternly  bore 
Such  toils  as  meaner  souls  had  quelled ; 
But  souls  like  these,  such  toils  impelled 

To  soar. 

Hail  to  the  morn,  when  first  they  stood 

On  Bunker's  height, 
And,  fearless,  stemmed  the  invading  flood, 
And  wrote  our  dearest  rights  in  blood, 
And  mowed  in  ranks  the  nireling  brood, 

In  desperate  fight ! 
O,  'twas  a  proud,  exulting  day, 
For  even  our  fallen  fortunes  lay 

In  light. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  173 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore  ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  Liberty, 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 

She  bore. 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest ; 
And,  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
And  Slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppressed  : 
All,  who  the  wreath  of  Freedom  twine 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine, 

Are  blessed. 

We  love  thy  rude  and  rocky  shore, 

And  here  we  stand — 
Let  foreign  navies  hasten  o'er, 
And  on  our  heads  their  fury  pour, 
And  peal  their  cannon's  loudest  roar, 

And  storm  our  land  ; 
They  still  shall  find  our  lives  are  given 
To  die  for  home  ; — and  leant  on  Heaven 

Our  hand. 


The  Damsel  of  Peru. — Bryant. 

Where  olive  leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind  that  blew, 
There  sat,  beneath  the  pleasant  shade,  a  damsel  of  Peru : 
Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to  the  air, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  snowy  arm  and  oi  her  glossy  hair ; 
And  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice  amid  that  shady  nook, 
As  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of  hidden  brook. 

'Tis  a  song  of  love  and  valor,  in  the  noble  Spanish  tongue, 
That  once  upon  the  sunny  plains  of  Old  Castile  was  sung, 
15* 


174  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

When,  from  their  mountain  holds,  on  the  Moorish  rout  "below, 
Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and  swept  away  the  foe. 
Awhile  the  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks  forth  anew 
A  wilder  rhyme,  a  livelier  note,  of  freedom  and  Peru. 

For  she  has  bound  the  sword  to  a  youthful  lover's  side, 

And  sent  him  to  the  war,  the  day  she  should  have  been  his 

bride, 
And  bade  him  bear  a  faithful  heart  to  battle  for  the  right, 
And  held  the  fountains  of  her  eyes  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 
Since  the  parting  kiss  was  given,  six  weary  months  are  fled, 
And  yet  the  foe  is  in  the  land,  and  blood  must  yet  be  shed. 

A  white  hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face  looks  forth, 
And  bright  dark  eyes  gaze  steadfastly  and  sadly  toward  the 

north ; — 
Thou  lookest  in  vain,  sweet  maiden ;  the  sharpest  sight  would 

fail 
'To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life  abroad  in  all  the  vale ; 
For  the  noon  is  coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams  fiercely  beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest  tops  seem  reeling  in  the  heat. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair,  sad  face  is  gone ; 
But  the  music  of  that  silver  voice  is  flowing  sweetly  on, — 
Not,  as  of  late,  with  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully  and  low, — 
A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long  ago, 
Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the  brave, 
And  her  who  died  of  sorrow  upon  his  early  grave. 

But  see,  along  that  rugged  path,  a  fiery  horseman  ride ; 
See  the  torn  plume,  the  tarnished  belt,  the  sabre  at  his  side ; 
His  spurs  are  in  his  horse's  sides,  his  hand  casts  loose  the  rein ; 
There's  sweat  upon  the  streaming  flank,  and  foam  upon  the 

mane; 
He  speeds  toward  that  olive  bower,  along  the  shaded  hill : 
God  shield  the  hapless  maiden  there,  if  he  should  mean  her  ill. 

And  suddenly  the  song  has  ceased,  and  suddenly  I  hear 
A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade — a  shriek — but  not  of  fear ; 
For  tender  accents  follow,  and  tenderer  pauses  speak 
The  overflow  of  gladness  when  words  are  all  too  weak : 
"  I  lay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru  is  free, 
And  I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  olive  grove  with  thee." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  175 


Power  of  Maternal  Piety. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  child,  (said  a  good  old  man,)  my  mother  used  to  bid 
me  kneel  down  beside  her,  and  place  her  hand  upon  my  head,  while  she 
prayed.  Ere  I  was  old  enough  to  know  her  worth,  she  died,  and  I  was  left 
too  much  to  my  own  guidance.  Like  others,  I  was  inclined  to  evil  passions, 
but  often  felt  myself  checked,  and,  as  it  were,  drawn  back  by  a  soft  hand 
upon  my  head.  When  a  young  man,  I  travelled  in  foreign  lands,  and  was 
exposed  to  many  temptations  •,  but  when  I  would  have  yielded,  that  same  hand 
teas  upon  my  head,  and  I  was  saved.  I  seemed  to  feel  its  pressure  as  in  the 
days  of  my  happy  infancy,  and  sometimes  there  came  with  it  a  voice  in  my 
heart,  a  voice  that  must  be  obeyed, — {0,  do  not  this  wickedness,  my  son, 
nor  sin  against  thy  God.'  " 

Why  gaze  ye  on  my  hoary  hairs, 

Ye  children,  young  and  gay  ? 
Your  locks,  beneath  the  blast  of  cares, 

Will  bleach  as  white  as  they. 

I  had  a  mother  once,  like  you, 

Who  o'er  my  pillow  hung, 
Kissed  from  my  cheek  the  briny  dew, 

And  taught  my  faltering  tongue. 

She,  when  the  nightly  couch  was  spread, 

Would  bow  my  infant  knee, 
And  place  her  hand  upon  my  head, 

And,  kneeling,  pray  for  me. 

But,  then,  there  came  a  fearful  day ; 

I  sought  my  mother's  bed, 
Till  harsh  hands  tore  me  thence  away, 

And  told  me  she  was  dead. 

I  plucked  a  fair  white  rose,  and  stole 

To  lay  it  by  her  side, 
Ana*  thought  strange  sleep  enchained  her  soul, 

For  no  fond  voice  replied. 

That  eve,  I  knelt  me  down  in  wo, 

And  said  a  lonely  prayer ; 
Yet  still  my  temples  seemed  to  glow 

As  if  that  hand  were  there. 

Years  fled,  and  left  me  childhood's  joy, 

Gay  sports  and  pastimes  dear; 
I  rose  a  wild  and  wayward  boy, 

Who  scorned  the  curb  of  fear. 


176  COMMOX-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Fierce  passions  shook  me  like  a  reed  ; 

Yet,  ere  at  night  I  slept, 
That  soft  hand  made  my  bosom  bleed 

And  down  I  fell,  and  wept. 

Youth  came — the  props  of  virtue  reeled  ; 

But  oft,  at  day's  decline, 
A  marble  touch  my  brow  congealed — 

Blessed  mother,  was  it  thine  ? — 

In  foreign  lands  I  travelled  wide, 
My  pulse  was  bounding  high, 

Vice  spread  her  meshes  at  my  side, 
And  pleasure  lured-my  eye  ; — 

Yet  still  tliat  hand,  so  soft  and  cold, 

Maintained  its  mystic  sway, 
As  when,  amid  my  curls  of  gold, 

With  gentle  force  it  lay. 

And  with  it  breathed  a  voice  of  care, 

As  from  the  lowly  sod, 
"  My  son — my  only  one — beware  ! 

Nor  sin  against  thy  God." 

Ye  think,  perchance,  that  age  hath  stole 

My  kindly  warmth  away, 
And  dimmed  the  tablet  of  the  soul ; — 

Yet  when,  with  lordly  sway, 

This  brow  the  plumed  helm  displayed, 
That  guides  the  warrior  throng, 

Or  beauty's  thrilling  fingers  strayed 
These  manly  locks  among, — 

That  hallowed  touch  was  ne'er  forgot! — 
And  now,  though  time  hath  set 

His  frosty  seal  upon  my  lot, 
These  temples  feel  it  yet. 

And  if  I  e'er  in  heaven  appear, 

A  mother's  holy  prayer, 
A  mother's  hand,  and  gentle  tear, 
That  pointed  to  a  Savior  dear, 

Have  led  the  wanderer  there. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  177 


Niagara. — U.  States  Review  and  Literary  Gazette. 

From  the  Spanish  of  Jose  Maria  Heredia. 

Tremendous  torrent  !  for  an  instant  hush 
The  terrors  of  thy  voice,  and  cast  aside 
Those  wide-involving  shadows,  that  my  eyes 
May  see  the  fearful  beauty  of  thy  face. 
I  am  not  all  unworthy  of  thy  sight; 
For,  from  my  very  boyhood,  have  I  loved, — 
Shunning  the  meaner  track  of  common  minds, — 
To  look  on  Nature  in  her  loftier  moods. 
At  the  rierce  rushing  of  the  hurricane, 
At  the  near  bursting  of  the  thunderbolt, 
I  have  been  touched  with  joy;  and,  when  the  sea, 
Lashed  by  the  wind,  hath  rocked  my  bark,  and  showed 
Its  yawning  caves  beneath  me,  I  have  loved 
Its  dangers  and  the  wrath  of  elements. 
But  never  yet  the  madness  of  the  sea 
Hath  moved  me  as  thy  grandeur  moves  me  now. 

Thou  flowest  on  in  quiet,  till  thy  waves 
Grow  broken  'midst  the  rocks  ;  thy  current,  then, 
Shoots  onward,  like  the  irresistible  course 
Of  destiny.     Ah!  terribly  they  rage — 
The  hoarse  and  rapid  whirlpools  there  !     My  brain 
Grows  wild,  my  senses  wander,  as  I  gaze 
Upon  the  hurrying  waters,  and  my  sight 
Vainly  would  follow,  as  toward  the  verge 
Sweeps  the  wide  torrent :  waves  innumerable 
Meet  there  and  madden ;  waves  innumerable 
Urge  on,  and  overtake  the  waves  before, 
And  disappear  in  thunder  and  in  foam. 

They  reach — they  leap  the  barrier  :  the  abyss 
Swallows,  insatiable,  the  sinking  waves. 
A  thousand  rainbows  arch  them,  and  the  woods 
Are  deafened  with  the  roar.     The  violent  shock 
Shatters  to  vapor  the  descending  sheets : 
A  cloudy  whirlwind  fills  the  gulf,  and  heaves 
The  mighty  pyramid  of  circling  mist 
To  heaven.     The  solitary  hunter,  near, 
Pauses  with  terror  in  the  forest  shades. 

****** 

God  of  all  truth  !  in  other  lands  I've  seen 
Lying  philosophers,  blaspheming  men, 
Questioners  of  thy  mysteries,  that  draw 


173       COMMOX-I'LACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY. 

Their  fellows  deep  into  impiety  ; 

And  therefore  doth  my  spirit  seek  thy  face 

In  earth's  majestic  solitudes.     Even  here 

My  heart  doth  open  all  itself  to  thee. 

In  this  immensity  of  loneliness, 

I  feel  thy  hand  upon  me.     To  my  ear 

The  eternal  thunder  of  the  cataract  brings 

Thy  voice,  and  I  am  humbled  as  I  hear. 

Dread  torrent !  that,  with  wonder  and  with  fear, 
Dost  overwhelm  the  soul  of  him  that  looks 
Upon  thee,  and  dost  bear  it  from  itself, 
Whence  hast  thou  thy  beginning  ?     Who  supplies, 
Age  after  age,  thy  unexhausted  springs  ? 
What  power  hath  ordered,  that,  when  all  thy  weight 
Descends  into  the  deep,  the  swollen  waves 
Rise  not,  and  roll  to  overwhelm  the  earth  ? 

The  Lord  hath  opened  <his  omnipotent  hand,- 
Covered  thy  face  with  clouds,  and  given  his  voice 
.To  thy  down-rushing  waters  ;  he  hath  girt 
Thy  terrible  forehead  with  his  radiant  bow. 
I  see  thy  never-resting  waters  run, 
And  I  bethink  me  how  the  tide  of  time 
Sweeps  to  eternity.     So  pass,  of  man, — 
Pass,  like  a  noon-day  dream, — the  blossoming  days, 
And  he  awakes  to  sorrow.     *       *       *       * 

Hear,  dread  Niagara  !  my  latest  voice. 
Yet  a  few  years,  and  the  cold  earth  shall  close 
Over  the  bones  of  him  who  sins;s  thee  now 
Thus  feelingly.     Would  that  this,  my  humble  verse, 
Might  be,  like  thee,  immortal.     I,  meanwhile, 
Cheerfully  passing  to  the  appointed  rest, 
Might  raise  my  radiant  forehead  in  the  clouds 
To  listen  to  the  echoes  of  my  fame, 


Absalom. — N.  P.  Willis. 

The  waters  slept.     Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream  :  the  willow  leaves, 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds ;  and  the  long  stems, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  179 

Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way, 
And  leaned,  in  graceful  attitudes,  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world ! 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem  ;  and  now  he  stood, 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.     The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath  ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words ;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh  !   when  the  heart  is  full — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 
Are  such  a  very  mockery — how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer ! 
He  prayed  for  Israel ;  and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.     He  prayed  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield ;  and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh  !  for  Absalom — 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom — 
The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away 
In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherished  him — for  him  he  poured, 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 
Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there, 
Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 
***** 

The  pall  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave  ;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sunk  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 
Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  girls. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet :  his  banner,  soiled 


180  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRV. 

With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid, 

Reversed,  beside  him  :  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 

Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 

Rested,  like  mockery,  on  his  covered  brow. 

The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 

Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle  ;  and  their  chief, 

The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 

And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly, 

As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 

A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped  his  blade  , 

As  if  a  trumpet  rang ;  but  the  bent  form 

Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command, 

In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers, 

And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  king  stood  still 

Till  the  last  echo  died  :  then,  throwing  off 

The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 

The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 

In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  wo  : — 

"  Alas !  my  noble  boy  !  that  thou  should'st  die  ! 

Thou,  who  weft  made  so  beautifully  fair! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb, 
My  proud  boy  Absalom  ! 

"  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son !  and  I  am  chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee 

How  was  1  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  "  my  father"  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom ! 

"  The  grave  hath  won  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantlipg  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung ; — 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom  ! 

"And,  oh !  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token! 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  181 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom  ! 

"  And  now,  farewell !  'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee  : — 

And  thy  dark  sin  ! — Oh  !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  wo  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  erring  Absalom !" 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child  :  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer ; 
And,  as  a  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently,  and  left  him  there, 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


Hymn  of  Nature.— W .  0.  B.  Peabody. 

God  of  the  eartb/s  extended  plains ! 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie : 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky : 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow, 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep  ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  summoned  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calmed  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee  ; 
16 


188  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY, 

But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 

To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 
And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh, 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry — 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings ! 
Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above  ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world  !  the  hour  must  come, 

And  nature's  self  to  dust  return ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay ; 

Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn  ; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow  ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  183 


The  Garden  of  Gethsemane. — J.  Pierpont. 

O'er  Kedron's  stream,  and  Salem's  height, 

And  Olivet's  brown  steep, 
Moves  the  majestic  queen  of  night, 
And  throws  from  heaven  her  silver  light, 

And  sees  the  world  asleep ; — 

All  but  the  children  of  distress, 

Of  sorrow,  grief,  and  care — 
Whom  sleep,  though  prayed  for,  will  not  bless  ;- 
These  leave  the  couch  of  restlessness, 

To  breathe  the  cool,  calm  air. 

For  those  who  shun  the  glare  of  day, 

There's  a  composing  power, 
That  meets  them,  on  their  lonely  way, 
In  the  still  air,  the  sober  ray 

Of  this  religious  hour. 

'Tis  a  religious  hour ; — for  he, 

Who  many  a  grief  shall  bear, 
In  his  own  body  on  the  tree, 
Is  kneeling  in  Gethsemane, 

In  agony  and  prayer. 

O,  Holy  Father,  when  the  light 

Of  earthly  joy  grows  dim, 
May  hope  in  Christ  grow  strong  and  bright, 
To  all  who  kneel,  in  sorrow's  night, 

In  trust  and  prayer  like  him. 


Trust  in  God. — Percival. 

Thou  art,  0  Lord,  my  only  trust, 
When  friends  are  mingled  with  the  dust, 

And  all  my  loves  are  gone. 
When  earth  has  nothing  to  bestow, 
And  every  flower  is  dead  below, 

I  look  to  thee  alone. 


184  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave,  in  doubt  and  fear, 
The  humble  soul,  who  loves  to  hear 

The  lessons  of  thy  word. 
When  foes  around  us  thickly  press, 
And  all  is  danger  and  distress, 

There's  safety  in  the  Lord. 

The  bosom  friend  may  sleep  below 
The  churchyard  turf,  and  we  may  go 

To  close  a  loved  one's  eyes  : 
They  will  not  always  slumber  there ; 
We  see  a  world  more  bright  and  fair, 

A  home  beyond  the  skies. 

And  we  may  feel  the  bitter  dart, 
Most  keenly  rankling  in  the  heart, 

By  some  dark  ingrate  driven : 
In  us  revenge  can  never  burn ; 
We  pity,  pardon ;  then  we  turn, 

And  rest  our  souls  in  heaven. 

'Tis  thou,  O  Lord,  who  shield'st  my  head, 
And  draw'st  thy  curtains  round  my  bed ; 

I  sleep  secure  in  thee ; 
And,  O,  may  soon  that  time  arrive, 
When  we  before  thy  face  shall  live 

Through  all  eternity. 


Heaven. — Christian  Examiner. 

The  earth,  all  light  and  loveliness,  in  summer's  golden  hours, 
Smiles,  in  her  bridal  vesture  clad,  and  crowned  with  festal 

flowers, 
So  radiantly  beautiful,  so  like  to  heaven  above, 
We  scarce  can  deem  more  fair  that  world  of  perfect  bliss  and 

love. 

Is  this  a  shadow,  faint  and  dim,  of  that  which  is  to  come  ? 
What  shall  the  unveiled  glories  be  of  our  celestial  home, 
Where  waves  the    glorious  tree  of  life,  where  streams  of  bliss 

gush  free. 
And  all  is  glowing  in  the  light  of  immortality ! 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  185 

To  see  again  the  home   of  youth,  when  weary  years  have 

passed, 
Serenely  bright,  as  when  we  turned  and  looked  upon  it  last ; 
To  hear  the  voice  oflove,  to  meet  the  rapturous  embrace, 
To  gaze,  through  tears  of  gladness,  on  each  dear  familiar  face — 

Oh !  this  indeed  is  joy,  though  here  we  meet  again  to  part 
But  what  transporting  bliss  awaits  the  pure  and  faithful  heart, 
Where  it  shall  find  the  loved  and  lost,  those  who  have  gone 

before, 
Where  every  tear  is  wiped  away,  where  partings  come  no 

more ! 

When,  on  Devotion's  seraph  wings,  the  spirit  soars  above, 
And  feels  thy  presence,  Father,  Friend,  God  of  eternal  love, — 
Joys  of  the  earth,  ye  fade  away  before  that  living  ray, 
Which  gives  to  the  rapt  soul  a  glimpse  of  pure  and  perfect 
day — 

A  gleam  of  heaven's  own  light — though  now  its  brightness 

scarce  appears 
Through  the  dim  shadows,  which  are  spread  around  this  vale 

of  tears ; 
But  thine  unclouded  smile,  0  God,  fills  that  all  glorious  place, 
Where  we  shall  know  as  we  are  known,  and  see  thee  face  to 

face! 


Geehale.     An  Indian  Lament. — Anonymous. 

The  blackbird  is  singing  on  Michigan's  shore 
As  sweetly  and  gayly  as  ever  before ; 
For  he  knows  to  his  mate  he,  at  pleasure,  can  hie, 
And  the  dear  little  brood  she  is  teaching  to  fly. 
The  sun  looks  as  ruddy,  and  rises  as  bright, 
And  reflects  o'er  our  mountains  as  beamy  a  light, 
As  it  ever  reflected,  or  ever  expressed, 
When  my  skies  were  the  bluest,  my  dreams  were  the  best. 

The  fox  and  the  panther,  both  beasts  of  the  night, 
Retire  to  their  dens  on  the  gleaming  of  light, 
And  they  spring  with  a  free  and  a  sorrowless  track, 
For  they  know  that  their  mates  are  expecting  them  back. 
Each  bird,  and  each  beast,  it  is  blessed  in  degree  : 
All  nature  is  cheerful,  all  happy,  but  me. 
16* 


186  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

I  will  go  to  my  tent,  and  lie  down  in  despair ; 
I  will  paint  me  with  black,  and  will  sever  my  hair ; 
I  will  sit  on  the  shore,  where  the  hurricane  blows, 
And  reveal  to  the  god  of  the  tempest  my  woes ; 
I  will  weep  for  a  season,  on  bitterness  fed, 
For  my  kindred  are  gone  to  the  hills  of  the  dead ; 
But  they  died  not  by  hunger,  or  lingering  decay ; 
The  steel  of  the  white  man  hath  swept  them  away. 

This  snake-skin,  that  once  I  so  sacredly  wore, 
I  will  toss,  with  disdain,  to  the  storm-beaten  shore  : 
Its  charms  I  no  longer  obey  or  invoke ; 
Its  spirit  hath  left  me,  its  spell  is  now  broke. 
[  will  raise  up  my  voice  to  the  source  of  the  light ; 
I  will  dream  on  the  wings  of  the  bluebird  at  night ; 
I  will  speak  to  the  spirits  that  whisper  in  leaves, 
And  that  minister  balm  to  the  bosom  that  grieves ;   - 
And  will  take  a  new  Mariito — such  as  shall  seem 
To  be  kind  and  propitious  in  every  dream, 

O,  then  I  shall  banish  these  cankering  sighs, 
And  tears  shall  no  longer  gush  salt  from  my  eyes ; 
I  shall  wash  from  my  face  every  cloud-colored  stain ; 
Red — red  shall,  alone,  on  my  visage  remain ! 
I  will  dig  up  my  hatchet,  and  bend  my  oak  bow  ; 
By  night  and  by  day  I  will  follow  the  foe  ; 
Nor  lakes  shall  impede  me,  nor  mountains,  nor  snows  ;- 
His  blood  can,  alone,  give  my  spirit  repose. 

They  came  to  my  cabin  when  heaven  was  black : 
I  heard  not  their  coming,  I  knew  not  their  track ; 
But  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  their  blazing  fusees, 
They  were  people  engendered  beyond  the  big  seas : 
My  wife  and  my  children, — 0,  spare  me  the  tale  ! — 
For  who  is  there  left  that  is  kin  to  Geehale  ! 


Scene  from"  Percy's  Masque." — Hillhouse. 

Scene. — A  high-wood  walk  in  a  park.  The  towers  of  Warkworth  castle, 
in  Northumberland,  seen  over  the  trees. — Enter  Arthur,  in  a  huntsman's 
dress. 

Arthur.    Here  let  me  pause,  and  breathe  awhile,  and  wipe 
These  servile  drops  from  off  my  burning  brow. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  18? 

Amidst  these  venerable  trees,  the  air 
Seems  hallowed  by  the  breath  of  other  times, — 
Companions  of  my  fathers,  ye  have  marked 
Their  generations  pass.     Your  giant  arms 
Shadowed  their  youth,  and  proudly  canopied 
Their  silver  hairs,  when,  ripe  in  years  and  glory, 
These  walks  they  trod  to  meditate  on  heaven. 
What  warlike  pageants  have  ye  seen  !  what  trains 
Of  captives,  and  what  heaps  of  spoil !  what  pomp, 
When  the  victorious  chief,  war's  tempest  o'er, 
In  Warkworth's  bowers  unbound  his  panoply ! 
What  floods  of  splendor,  bursts  of  jocund  din, 
Startled  the  slumbering  tenants  of  these  shades, 
When  night  awoke  the  tumult  of  the  feast, 
The  song  of  damsels,  and  the  sweet-toned  lyre  ! 
Then,  princely  Percy  reigned  amidst  his  halls, 
Champion,  and  judge,  and  father  of  the  North. 
O,  days  of  ancient  grandeur,  are  ye  gone  ? 
For  ever  gone  ?     Do  these  same  scenes  behold 
His  offspring  here,  the  hireling  of  a  foe  ! 
0,  that  I  knew  my  fate !  that  I  could  read 
The  destiny  that  Heaven  has  marked  for  me  ! 
Enter  a  Forester. 

Forester.     A  benison  upon  thee,  gentle  huntsman  ! 
Whose  towers  are  these  that  overlook  the  wood  ? 

Ar.     Earl  Westmoreland's. 

For.     The  Neville's  towers  I  seek. 
By  dreams  I  learn,  and  prophecies  most  strange, 
A  noble  youth  lurks  here,  whose  horoscope 
Declares  him  fated  to  amazing  deeds. 

Ar.     {starting  back.)  Douglas! — 

Douglas.     Now  do  I  clasp  thee,  Percy;  and  I  swear 
By  my  dear  soul,  and  by  the  blood  of  Douglas, 
Linked  to  thy  side,  through  every  chance,  I  go, 
Till  here  thou  rul'st,  or  death  and  night  end  all. 

Percy.     Amazement !     Whence  ? — or  how  ? — 

Doug.     And  didst  thou  think 
Thus  to  elude  me  .? 

Per.     Answer  how  thou  found'st  me. 
What  miracle  directed  here  thy  steps  ? 

Doug.     Where  should  I  look  for  thee,  but  in  the  post 
Where  birth,  fame,  fortune,  wrongs,  and  honor  call  thee ! 
Returning  from  the  isles,  I  found  thee  gone. 
Awhile  in  doubt,  each  circumstance  I  weighed ; 
Thy  difficulties,  wrongs,  and  daring  spirit ; 


168  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  gay,  delusive  6how,  so  long  maintained 
To  lull  observers ;  then  set  forth,  resolved 
Never  to  enter  more  my  native  towers 
Till  I  had  found  and  searched  thee  to  the  soul. 

Per.     Still  must  I  wonder  ;  for  so  dark  a  cloud — 

Doug.     O,  deeper  than  thou  think'st  I've  read  thy  heart. 
A  gilded  insect  to  the  world  you  seemed ; 
The  fashion's  idol ;  person,  pen,  and  lyre, 
The  soft,  devoted  darling  of  the  fair. 
By  slow  degrees,  I  found  Herculean  nerve 
Hid  in  thy  tuneful  arm  ;  that  hunger,  thirst, 
The  sultry  chase,  the  bleakest  mountain  bed, 
The  dark,  rough,  winter  torrent,  were  to  thee 
But  pastime  ;  more  were  courted  than  repose. 
To  others,  your  discourse  still  wild  and  vain 
To  me,  when  none  else  heard  thee,  seemed  the  voice 
Of  heavenly  oracles. 

Per.     0,  partial  friendship ! 

Doug.     Yet  had  I  never  guessed  your  brooded  purpose. — 
Rememberest  thou  the  regent's  masque  ?  the  birth  night  ? 

Per.     Well. 

Doug.    That  night  you  glittered  through  the  crowded  halls, 
Gay  and  capricious  as  a  sprite  of  air. 
Apollo  rapt  us  when  you  touched  the  lyre  ; 
Cupid  fanned  odors  from  your  purple  wings ; 
Or  Mercury  amused  with  magic  wand, 
Mocking  our  senses  with  your  feathered  heel. 
In  every  fancy,  shape,  and  hue,  you  moved, 
The  admiration,  pity,  theme  of  all. — 
One  bed  received  us.     Soon  your  moaning  voice 
Disturbed  me.     Dreaming,  heavily  you  groaned3 
"  O,  Percy!  Percy  !  Hotspur!  O,  my  father! 
Upbraid  me  not !  hide,  hide  those  ghastly  wounds ! 
Usurper !  traitor !  thou  shalt  feel  me !" 

Per.     Heavens ! 

Doug.     'Tis  true : — and  more  than  I  can  now  remember. 

Per.     And  never  speak  of  it  ? 

Doug.     Inly  I  burned ; 
But  honor,  pride,  forbade.     Pilfer  from  dreams ! 
Thou  knew'st  the  ear,  arm,  life  of  Douglas,  thine — 

Per.     And  long  ago  I  had  disclosed  to  thee 
My  troubled  bosom  ;  but  my  enterprise 
So  rife  with  peril  seemed— to  hearts  less  touched, 
So  hopeless  !     Knowing  thy  impetuous  soul, 
How  could  I  justify  the  deed  to  Heaven  ? 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  189 

How  to  thine  aged  sire  ?     Armed  proof  I  stand, 

To  fate  :  come  what  will  come — the  wide  earth  bears 

No  heart  of  kindred  blood  to  mourn  my  fall. 

Doug.     The  heart  of  Douglas  beats  not  with  thy  blood  ; 
But  never  will  I  trust  in  mercy  more, 
Injustice,  truth,  or  Heaven,  if  it  forsake  thee. 

Per.     Douglas,  thy  friendship  is  my  choicest  treasure  ;— 
Has  been  a  radiant  star  on  my  dark  way ; 
And  never  did  I  doubt  thy  zeal  to  serve  me. 
Lend,  now,  a  patient  ear. — While  with  my  doom 
Alone  I  strive,  no  dread  or  doubt  distracts  me. 
No  precious  fate  with  mine  involved,  my  heart 
Is  fearless,  firm  my  step.     Exposing  thee, 
The  adamantine  buckler  falls,  and  leaves  me, 
Naked  and  trembling,  to  a  double  death. 

Doug.     Thou  lov'st  me  not. 

Per.     Let  Heaven  be  witness  there  ! — 
The  thought  of  bringing  down  thy  father's  hairs 
With  sorrow  to  the  grave,  would  weigh  like  guilt, 
Palsy  my  soul,  and  cripple  all  my  powers. 

Doug.     So ! — have  I  wandered  o'er  the  hills  for  this  ? 

Per.    I  would  not  wound  thee,  Douglas,  well  thou  know'st; 
But  thus  to  hazard  on  a  desperate  cast 
Thy  golden  fortunes— 

Doug.     Cursed  be  the  blood  within  me, 
Plagues  and  the  grave  o'ertake  me,  if  I  leave  thee ; 
Though  gulfs  yawned  under  thee,  and  roaring  seas 
Threatened  to  whelm  thee. 

Per.     For  thy  father's  sake — 

Doug.     Peace  !  I'd  not  go  if  staying  here  would  strew 
His  hoar  hairs  in  the  tomb — not  stir,  by  Heaven  I 
Must  I  toss  counters  ?  sum  the  odds  of  life, 
When  honor  points  the  way  ? — When  was  the  blood 
Of  Douglas  precious  in  a  noble  cause  ? 

Per.     Nay,  hear  me,  hear  me,  Douglas — 

Doug.     Talk  to  me 
Of  dangers  ?     Death  and  shame  !     Is  not  my  race 
As  high,  as  ancient,  and  as  proud  as  thine  ? 

Per.     I've  done. 

Doug.     By  Heaven,  it  grieves  me,  Harry  Percy, 
Preaching  such  craven  arguments  to  me. 
Now  tell  me  how  thou  stand'st ;  thy  cause  how  prospered. 
What  has  been  done  ?     What  projects  are  afoot .; 
Acquaint  me  quickly. 

Per.     Gently ;  lest  some  busy  ear 


190  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Be  near  us.     Little  have  I  yet  to  tell  thee. 
Thinking  my  rival's  coat  would  best  conceal  me, 
I  won  his  favor  by  a  tale  scarce  feigned. 

Doug.     A  keeper  of  his  chase  thy  garb  bespeaks. 

Per.     Chief  huntsman.     Thus  disguised,  I  day  by  day 
Traverse  my  native  hills,  viewing  the  strength 
And  features  of  the  land  ;  its  holds  of  safety  ; 
And  searching  patriot  spirits  out.     For,  still, 
Though  kings  and  gaudy  courts  remember  not, 
Still,  in  the  cottage  and  the  peasant's  heart, 
The  memory  of  my  fathers  lives.     When  there, 
The  old,  the  good  old  day  is  cited,  tears 
Roll  down  their  reverend  beards,  and  genuine  love 
Glows  in  their  praises  of  my  sires. 

Doug.     I  long 
To  press  the  sons,  and  tell  them  what  a  lord 
Lives  yet  to  rule  them. 

Per.     When  first  I  mixed  among  them,  oft  I  struck, 
Unwittingly,  a  spark  of  this  same  fire. 
Encouraged  thus,  I  sought  its  latent  seeds, 
Seized  opportunities  to  draw  the  chase 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  and  spent 
Nights  in  their  hospitable,  happy  cots. 
There,  to  high  strains,  the  minstrel  harp  I  tuned, 
Chanting  the  glories  of  the  ancient  day, 
When  their  brave  fathers,  scorning  to  be  slaves, 
Rushed  with  their  chieftain  to  the  battle  field, 
Trod  his  bold  footsteps  in  the  ranks  of  death, 
And  shared  his  triumphs  in  the  festal  hall. 

Doug.     That  lulled  them,  as  the  north  wind  does  the  6ea. 

Per.     From  man  to  man,  from  house  to  house,  like  fire, 
The  kindling  impulse  flew  ;  till  every  hind, 
Scarce  conscious  why,  handles  his  targe  and  bow ; 
Still  talks  of  change ;  starts  if  the  banished  name 
By  chance  he  hears ;  and  supplicates  his  saint, 
The  true-born  offspring  may  his  banner  rear 
With  speed  upon  the  hills. 

Doug.     What  lack  we  ?     Spread 
The  warlike  ensign.     On  the  border  side, 
Two  hundred  veteran  spears  await  your  summons. 

Per.     What  say'st  thou  ? 

Doug.     Sinews  of  the  house  ; 
Ready  to  tread  in  every  track  of  Douglas. 
By  stealth  I  drew  them  in  from  distant  points, 
And  hid  amidst  a  wood  in  Chevy- Chace. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  191 

Per.    0,  Douglas !  Douglas !  even  such  a  friend, 
For  death  or  life,  was  thy  great  sire  to  mine. 

Doug.     Straight,  let  us  turn  our  trumpets  to  the  hills ; 
Declare  aloud  thy  name  and  wrongs ;  in  swarms 
Call  down  the  warlike  tenantry,  and  teach 
Aspiring  Neville  fatal  is  the  day 
The  Percy  and  the  Douglas  lead  in  arms. 

Per.     If  he  were  all — Remember  haughty  Henry, 
The  nephew  of  his  wife,  whose  word  could  speed 
A  veteran  army  to  his  kinsman's  aid. 

Doug.     Come  one,  come  all ;  leave  us  to  welcome  them. 

[Exit  Douglas. 
******* 

Per.     Too  long,  too  long  a  huntsman,  Arthur  comes, 
Stripped  of  disguise,  this  night,  to  execute 
His  father's  testament,— whose  blood  lies  spilt; 
Whose  murmurs  from  the  tomb  are  in  his  ears ; 
Whose  injuries  are  treasured  in  a  scroll 
Steeped  in  a  mother's  and  an  orphan's  tears. 
O'er  that  cursed  record  has  my  spirit  groaned, 
Since  dawning  reason,  in  unuttered  anguish. 
When  others  danced,  struck  the  glad  wire,  or  caught 
The  thrilling  murmurs  of  loved  lips,  I've  roamed 
Where  the  hill-foxes  howl,  and  eagles  cry, 
Brooding  o'er  wrongs  that  haunted  me  for  vengeance. 
Ay ! — I  have  been  an  outcast  from  my  cradle  ; 
Poor,  and  in  exile,  while  an  alien  called 
My  birth-right  home.     Halls  founded  by  my  sires 
Have  blazed  and  rudely  rung  with  stranger  triumphs ; 
Their  honorable  name  cowards  have  stained  ; 
Their  laurels  trampled  on ;  their  bones  profaned. 
Hence  have  I  labored;  watched  while  others  slept; 
Known  not  the  spring  of  life,  nor  ever  plucked 
One  vernal  blossom  in  the  day  of  youth. — 
The  harvest  of  my  toils  this  night  I  reap  ; 
For  death,  this  night,  or  better  life  awaits  me. 


To  S  *  *  *  *,  weeping. — Anonymous. 

Why  shouldst  thou  weep  ?  No  cause  hast  thou 

For  one  desponding  sigh  ; 
No  care  has  marked  that  polished  brow, 

Nor  dimmed  thy  radiant  eye. 


192  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OP    POETRY. 

Why  shouldst  thou  weep  ?  Around  thee  glows 

The  purple  light  of  youth, 
And  all  thy  looks  the  calm  disclose 

Of  innocence  and  truth. 

Nay,  weep  not  while  thy  sun  shines  bright, 

And  cloudless  is  thy  day, 
While  past  and  present  joys  unite 

To  cheer  thee  on  thy  way  ; 

While  fond  companions  round  thee  move, 

To  youth  and  nature  true, 
And  friends,  whose  looks  of  anxious  love 

Thy  every  step  pursue. 

Nay,  weep  not  now  :  reserve  thy  tears 

For  that  approaching  hour, 
When  o'er  the  scenes  of  other  years 

The  clouds  of  time  shall  lower ; 

When  thou,  alas!  no  more  canst  see, 

But  in  the  realms  above, 
The  friends  who  ever  looked  on  thee 

Unutterable  love ; 

When  some,  thy  fond  companions  now, 

And  constant  to  thy  side, 
View  thee  with  anger-darkening  brow, 

Or  cold,  repulsive  pride  ; 

Or  some,  the  faithful  of  that  band, 
Bless  thee  with  faltering  breath, 

While  from  their  lips  thy  trembling  hand 
Wipes  the  chill  dews  of  death. 

Nay,  weep  not  now  :  reserve  thy  tears 

For  that  approaching  day, 
When,  through  the  gradual  lapse  of  years, 

All  joys  have  stol'n  away ; 

When  Memory  a  wavering  light 

Sheds  dimly  o'er  the  past, 
And  Hope  no  longer  veils  from  sight 

The  horrors  of  the  last. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  193 

Nay,  weep  not  then :  let  but  the  ray 

Of  heavenly  peace  be  thine, 
Glorious  shall  be  thy  summer's  day, 

Unclouded  its  decline. 

Then  Memory's  light,  though  dim,  shall  show 

How  pure  thy  former  years, 
While  Hope  her  holiest  ray  shall  throw 

On  realms  beyond  the  spheres. 


Autumn. — H.  W.  Longfellow. 

O,  with  what  glory  comes  and  goes  the  year ! — 
The  buds  of  spring — those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times— enjoy 
Life's  newness,  and  earth's  garniture  spread  out ; 
And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and,  with 
A  sober  gladness,  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 
A  pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a  beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees, 
And,  from  a  beaker  full  of  richest  dyes, 
Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods, 
And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn,  on  the  mountain,  like  a  summer  bird, 
Lifts  up  her  purple  wing ;  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind — a  sweet  and  passionate  wooer- 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beach,  and  maple  yellow-leaved, — 
Where  Autumn,  like  a  faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  way-side  a-weary.     Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves;  the  purple  finch, 
That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, — 
A  winter  bird,— comes  with  its  plantive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel ;  whilst  aloud, 
From  cottage  roofs,  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings  ; 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke, 
Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail. 
17 


194  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

O,  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him,  that,  with  a  fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  the  yellow  leaves, 
Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teachings. 
He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a  tear. 


The  Bucket. — Samuel  Woodworth. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep  tangled  wild  wood, 

And  ev'ry  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ; 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy  house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well ! 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss- covered  bucket,  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure ; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white  pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well ; 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  which  hangs  in  his  well. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   POETRY.  195 


The  Snow  Flake. — Hannah  F.  Gould. 

"  Now,  if  I  fall,  will  it  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  low  and  lonely  spot, 

To  melt,  and  to  sink  unseen  or  forgot  ? 

And  then  will  my  course  be  ended  ?" 
'Twas  thus  a  feathery  Snow-Flake  said, 
As  down  through  the  measureless  space  it  strayed, 
Or,  as  half  by  dalliance,  half  afraid, 

It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended. 

"  O,  no,"  said  the  Earth,  "  thou  shalt  not  lie, 
Neglected  and  lone,  on  my  lap  to  die, 
Thou  pure  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky  ; 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping ; 
But,  then,  I  must  give  thee  a  lovelier  form ; 
Thou'lt  not  be  a  part  of  the  wintry  storm, 
But  revive  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and  warm, 

And  the  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping. 

"  And  then  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice  to  be 
Restored  in  the  lily  that  decks  the  lea, 
In  the  jessamine  bloom,  the  anemone, 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness ; 
To  melt,  and  be  cast  in  a  glittering  bead, 
With  the  pearls  that  the  night  scatters  over  the  mead, 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  fire-fly  feed, 

Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness ; — 

"  To  wake,  and  be  raised  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
When  Viola's  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep, 
In  a  tremulous  tear,  or  a  diamond  leap 

In  a  drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain ; 
Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow  and  heath, 
The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath, 
To  go  and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath 

Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

"  Or,  wouldst  thou  return  to  a  home  in  the  skies, 
To  shine  in  the  Iris  I'll  let  thee  arise, 
And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes 

A  pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending. 
But  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 
I'll  give  thee  a  new  and  vernal  birth, 


196  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OP    POETRY. 

When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  primal  worth, 
And  never  regret  descending  !" 

"  Then  I  will  drop,"  said  the  trusting  flake  ; 
"  But  bear  it  in  mind  that  the  choice  I  make 
Is  not  in  the  flowers  nor  the  dew  to  awake, 

Nor  the  mist  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning : 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  expir  *.  with  thee  ; 
But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me, 
They  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  dust  set  free, 

To  the  regions  above  returning, 

"  And  if  true  to  thy  word,  and  just  thou  art, 
Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart, 
Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  me  depart, 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven ; 
For  I  would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow, 
From  time  to  time,  in  thy  sight  to  glow, 
So  thou  may'st  remember  the  Flake  of  Snow 

By  the  promise  that  God  hath  given." 


u  I  am  the  Way,  and  the  Truth,  and  the  Life* 
Anonymous. 

Thou  art  the  Way — and  he  who  sighs, 

Amid  this  starless  waste  of  wo, 
To  find  a  pathway  to  the  skies, 

A  light  from  heaven's  eternal  glow, 
By  thee  must  come,  thou  gate  of  love, 

Through  which  the  saints  undoubting  trod ; 
Till  faith  discovers,  like  the  dove, 

An  ark,  a  resting  place  in  God. 

Thou  art  the  Truth — whose  steady  day 

Shines  on  through  earthly  blight  and  bloom, 
The  pure,  the  everlasting  ray, 

The  lamp  that  shines  e'en  in  the  tomb ; 
The  light,  that  out  of  darkness  springs, 

And  guideth  those  that  blindly  go ; 
The  word,  whose  precious  radiance  flings 

Its  lustre  upon  all  below. 

Thou  art  the  Life — the  blessed  well, 
With  living  waters  gushing  o'er, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  197 

Which  those  who  drink  shall  ever  dwell 
Where  sin  and  thirst  are  known  no  more  ; 

Thou  art  the  mystic  pillar  given, 

Our  lamp  by  night,  our  light  by  day  ; 

Thou  art  the  sacred  bread  from  heaven ; — 
Thou  art  the  Life— the  Truth— the  Way. 


The  Iceberg. — J.  0.  Rockwell. 

Twas  night — our  anchored  vessel  slept 

Out  on  the  glassy  sea ; 
And  still  as  heaven  the  waters  kept, 

And  golden  bright — as  he, 
The  setting  sun,  went  sinking  slow 

Beneath  the  eternal  wave  ; 
And  the  ocean  seemed  a  pall  to  throw 

Over  the  monarch's  grave. 

There  was  no  motion  of  the  air 

To  raise  the  sleeper's  tress, 
And  no  wave-building  winds  were  there, 

On  ocean's  loveliness ; 
But  ocean  mingled  with  the  sky 

With  such  an  equal  hue, 
That  vainly  strove  the  'wildered  eye 

To  part  their  gold  and  blue. 

And  ne'er  a  ripple  of  the  sea 

Came  on  our  steady  gaze, 
Save  when  some  timorous  fish  stole  out 

To  bathe  in  the  woven  blaze, — 
When,  flouting  in  the  light  that  played 

All  over  the  resting  main, 
He  would  sink  beneath  the  wave,  and  dart 

To  his  deep,  blue  home  again. 

Vet,  while  we  gazed,  that  sunny  eve, 

Across  the  twinkling  deep, 
A  form  came  ploughing  the  golden  wave, 

And  rending  its  holy  sleep  ; 
It  blushed  bright  red,  while  growing  on 

Our  fixed,  half-fearful  gaze  ; 
17* 


198  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

But  it  wandered  down,  with  its  glow  of  light, 
And  its  robe  of  sunny  rays. 

It  seemed  like  molten  silver,  thrown 

Together  in  floating  flame  ; 
And  as  we  looked,  we  named  it,  then, 

The  fount  whence  all  colors  came : 
There  were  rainbows  furled  with  a  careless  grace, 

And  the  brightest  red  that  glows ; 
The  purple  amethyst  there  had  place, 

And  the  hues  of  a  full-blown  rose. 

And  the  vivid  green,  as  the  sun-lit  grass 

Where  the  pleasant  rain  hath  been ; 
And  the  ideal  hues,  that,  thought-Uke,  pass 

Through  the  minds  of  fanciful  men; 
They  beamed  full  clear — and  that  form  moved  on, 

Like  one  from  a  -burning  grave  ; 
And  we  dared  not  think  it  a  real  thing, 

But  for  the  rustling  wave. 

The  sun  just  lingered  in  our  view, 

From  the  burning  edge  of  ocean, 
When  by  our  bark  that  bright  one  passed 

With  a  deep,  disturbing  motion : 
The  far  down  waters  shrank  away, 

With  a  gurgling  rush  upheaving, 
And  the  lifted  waves  grew  pale  and  sad, 

Their  mother's  bosom  leaving. 

Yet,  as  it  passed  our  bending  stern, 

In  its  throne-like  glory  going, 
It  crushed  on  a  hidden  rock,  and  turned 

Like  an  empire's  overthrowing. 
The  uptorn  waves  rolled  hoar, — and,  huge, 

The  far- thrown  undulations 
Swelled  out  in  the  sun's  last,  lingering  smile, 

And  fell  like  battling  nations. 


Hymn. — J.  Pierpont. 

Borne  by  the  tempest,  on  we  sail 
O'er  ocean's  billowy  way  ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  199 

One  glorious  orb  by  day  we  hail, 
By  night  one  faithful  ray. 

Thus  God  his  undivided  light 

Pours  on  life's  troubled  wave  ; 
Thus  hope,  meek  star,  through  death's  still  night, 

Looks  on  the  Christian's  grave. 

Monarch  of  heaven,  Eternal  One, 

On  thee  our  spirit  calls  ; 
To  thee,  as  followers  of  thy  Son, 

We  consecrate  these  walls. 

These  arches,  springing  to  the  sky, 

This  lightly  swelling  dome, 
That  lifts  to  heaven  its  starry  eye, — 

Be  these,  O  God,  thy  home. 

And  wilt  thou,  Omnipresent,  deign 

Within  these  walls  to  dwell  ? — 
Then  shalt  thou  hear  our  holiest  strain, 

Our  organ's  proudest  swell. 

Devotion's  eye  shall  drink  the  light 

That  richly  gushes  through 
Our  simple  dome  of  spotless  white, 

From  thine,  of  cloudless  blue. 

And  Faith,  and  Penitence,  and  Love, 

And  Gratitude,  shall  bend 
To  thee  : — 0  hear  them  from  above, 

Our  Father  and  our  Friend. 


The  Bride. — Anonymous. 

It  hath  passed,  my  daughter ;  fare  thee  well  I 

Pledged  is  the  faith,  inscribed  the  vow ; 
Yet  let  these  gushing  tear-drops  speak, 

Of  all  thy  mother's  anguish  now  ; 
And  when,  on  distant,  stranger-shores, 

Love  beams  from  brighter  eyes  than  mine, 
When  other  hands  thy  tresses  weave, 

And  other  lips  are  pressed  to  thine, — 


200  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

O,  then  remember  her  who  grieves 

With  parent-fondness  for  her  child ; 
Whose  lonely  path,  of  thee  bereft, 

Is  like  some  desert,  lone  and  wild, 
Where  erst  a  simple  floweret  grew, 

Where  erst  one  timid  wild  bird  sung  ; 
Now  lonely,  dark  and  desolate, 

No  bird  nor  flower  its  shades  among. 

And  when  thy  children  climb  the  knee, 

And  whisper,  "  Mother,  mother  dear!" 
O,  then  the  thought  of  her  recall 

Thou  leavest  broken-hearted  here  ; 
And  as  their  sinless  offerings  rise 

To  God's  own  footstool,  let  them  crave 
A  blessing  on  her  memory, 

Wrho  slumbers  in  the  peaceful  grave. 

When  care  shall  dim  thy  sunny  eye, 

And,  one  by  one,  the  ties  are  broken 
That  bind  thee  to  the  earth,  this  kiss 

Will  linger  yet — thy  mother's  token ; 
'Twill  speak  her  changeless  love"  for  thee, 

Speak  what  she  strives  in  vain  to  tell, 
The  yearning  of  a  parent's  heart 

My  only  child,  farewell !  farewell ! 


On  seeing  an  Eagle  pass  near  me  in  Autumn  Twilight.- 
G.  Mellen. 

Sail  on,  thou  lone  imperial  bird, 

Of  quenchless  eye  and  tireless  wing ; 
How  is  thy  distant  coming  heard 

As  the  night's  breezes  round  thee  ring ! 
Thy  course  was  'gainst  the  burning  sun 

In  his  extremest  glory  !  How  ! 
Is  thy  unequalled  daring  done, 

Thou  stoop'st  to  earth  so  lowly  now  r 

Or  hast  thou  left  thy  rocking  dome, 
Thy  roaring  crag,  thy  lightning  pine, 

To  find  some  secret,  meaner  home, 
Less  stormy  and  unsafe  than  thine  ? 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  201 

Else  why  thy  dusky  pinions  bend 

So  closely  to  this  shadowy  world, 
And  round  thy  scorching  glances  send, 

As  wishing  thy  broad  pens  were  furled  ? 

Yet  lonely  is  thy  shattered  nest, 

Thy  eyry  desolate,  though  high ; 
And  lonely  thou,  alike,  at  rest, 

Or  soaring  in  thy  upper  sky. 
The  golden  light  that  bathes  thy  plumes, 

On  thine  interminable  flight, 
Falls  cheerless  on  earth's  desert  tombs, 

And  makes  the  North's  ice-mountains  bright. 

So  come  the  eagle-hearted  down, 

So  come  the  proud  and  high  to  earth, 
When  life's  night-gathering  tempests  frown 

Over  their  glory  and  their  mirth ; 
So  quails  the  mind's  undying  eye, 

That  bore  unveiled  fame's  noontide  sun ; 
So  man  seeks  solitude,  to  die, 

His  high  place  left,  his  triumphs  done. 

So,  round  the  residence  of  power, 

A  cold  and  joyless  lustre  shines, 
And  on  life's  pinnacles  will  lower 

Clouds  dark  as  bathe  the  eagle's  pines 
But  0,  the  mellow  light  that  pours 

From  God's  pure  throne — the  light  that  saves ! 
It  warms  the  spirit  as  it  soars, 

And  sheds  deep  radiance  round  our  graves. 


To  the  Hon.  Theodore  Frelinghuysen,  on  reading  his  elo- 
quent Speech  in  defence  of  Indian  Rights. — 
W.  L.  Garrison. 

If  unto  marble  statues  thou  hadst  spoken, 
Or  icy  hearts,  congealed  by  polar  years, 

The  strength  of  thy  pure  eloquence  had  broken, 
Its  generous  heat  had  melted  them  to  tears  ; 

Which  pearly  drops  had  been  a  rainbow  token? 
Bidding  the  red  men  soothe  their  gloomy  fears. 


1 


;202  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

If  Honor,  Justice,  Truth,  had  not  forsaken 

The  place  long  hallowed  as  their  bright  abode, 

The  faith  of  treaties  never  had  been  shaken, 

Our  country  would  have  kept  the  trust  she  owed ; 

Nor  Violence  nor  Treachery  had  taken 

Away  those  rights  which  nature's  God  bestowed. 

Fruitless  thy  mighty  efforts — vain  appealing 
To  grasping  Avarice,  that  ne'er  relents ; 

To  Party  Power,  that  shamelessly  is  stealing, 
Banditti-like,  whatever  spoil  it  scents  ; 

To  base  Intrigue,  his  cloven  foot  revealing, 
That  struts  in  Honesty's  habiliments. 

Our  land — once  green  as  Paradise — is  hoary, 
E'en  in  its  youth,  with  tyranny  and  crime ; 

Its  soil  with  blood  of  Afric's  sons  is  gory, 
Whose  wrongs  eternity  can  tell — not  time  ; 

The  red  man's  woes  shall  swell  the  damning  story, 
To  be  rehearsed  in  every  age  and  clime. 

Yet,  Frelinghuyseiv,  gratitude  is  due  thee, 
And  loftier  praise  than  language  can  supply  : 

Guilt  may  denounce,  and  Calumny  pursue  thee, 
And  pensioned  Impudence  thy  worth  decry ; 

Brilliant  and  pure  posterity  shall  view  thee, 
As  a  fair  planet  in  a  troublous  sky. 

Be  not  dismayed.     On  God's  own  strength  relying, 
Stand  boldly  up,  meek  soldier  of  the  cross ; 

For  thee,  ten  thousand  prayers  are  heavenward  flying ; 
Thy  soul  is  purged  from  earthly  rust  and  dross. 

Patriot  and  Christian,  ardent,  self-denying, 
How  could  we  bear  resignedly  thy  loss  ? 


Genius  Slumbering. — Percival. 

He  sleeps,  forgetful  of  his  once  bright  fame  ; 

He  has  no  feeling  of  the  glory  gone ; 
He  has  no  eye  to  catch  the  mounting  flame, 

That  once  in  transport  drew  his  spirit  on ; 
He  lies  in  dull,  oblivious  dreams,  nor  cares 
Who  the  wreathed  laurel  bears. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  203 

And  yet  not  all  forgotten  sleeps  he  there ; 

There  are  who  still  remember  how  he  bore 
Upward  his  daring  pinions,  till  the  air 

Seemed  living  with  the  crown  of  light  he  wore  ; 
There  are  who,  now  his  early  sun  has  set, 
Nor  can,  nor  will  forget. 

He  sleeps, — and  yet,  around  the  sightless  eye 
And  the  pressed  lip,  a  darkened  glory  plays ; 

Though  the  high  powers  in  dull  oblivion  lie, 
There  hovers  still  the  light  of  other  days; 

Deep  in  that  soul  a  spirit,  not  of  earth, 

Still  struggles  for  its  birth. 

He  will  not  sleep  for  ever,  but  will  rise 

Fresh  to  more  daring  labors ;  now,  even  now, 

As  the  close  shrouding  mist  of  morning  flies, 
The  gathered  slumber  leaves  his  lifted  brow  ; 

From  his  half-opened  eye,  in  fuller  beams, 

His  wakened  spirit  streams. 

Yes,  he  will  break  his  sleep  ;  the  spell  is  gone ; 

The  deadly  charm  departed  ;  see  him  fling 
Proudly  his  fetters  by,  and  hurry  on, 

Keen  as  the  famished  eagle  darts  her  wing ; 
The  goal  is  still  before  him,  and  the  prize 
Still  woos  his  eager  eyes. 

He  rushes  forth  to  conquer :  shall  they  take — 

They,  who,  with  feebler  pace,  still  kept  their  way, 

When  he  forgot   the  contest — shall  they  take, 
Now  he  renews  the  race,  the  victor's  bay  ? 

Still  let  them  strive — when  he  collects  his  might, 

He  will  assert  his  right. 

The  spirit  cannot  always  sleep  in  dust, 
Whose  essence  is  ethereal ;  they  may  try 

To  darken  and  degrade  it ;  it  may  rust 
Dimly  awhile,  but  cannot  wholly  die  ; 

And,  when  it  wakens,  it  will  send  its  fire 

Intenser  forth  and  higher. 


204  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Genius  Waking. — Percival. 

Slumber's  heavy  chain  hath  bound  thee — 

Where  is  now  thy  fire  ? 
Feebler  wings  are  gathering  round  thee — 

Shall  they  hover  higher  ? 
Can  no  power,  no  spell,  recall  thee 

From  inglorious  dreams  ? 
O,  could  glory  so  appal  thee, 

With  his  burning  beams  ! 

Thine  was  once  the  highest  pinion 

In  the  midway  air ; 
With  a  proud  and  sure  dominion, 

Thou  didst  upward  bear. 
Like  the  herald,  winged  with  lightning, 

From,  the  Olympian  throne, 
Ever  mounting,  ever  brightening, 

Thou  wert  there  alone. 

Where  the  pillared  props  of  heaven 

Glitter  with  eternal  snows, 
Where  no  darkling  clouds  are  driven, 

Where  no  fountain  flows — 
Far  above  the  rolling  thunder, 

When  the  surging  storm 
Rent  its  sulphury  folds  asunder, 

We  beheld  thy  form. 

O,  what  rare  and  heavenly  brightness 

Flowed  around  thy  plumes, 
As  a  cascade's  foamy  whiteness 

Lights  a  cavern's  glooms  ! 
Wheeling  through  the  shadowy  ocean, 

Like  a  shape  of  light, 
With  serene  and  placid  motion, 

Thou  wert  dazzling  bright. 

From  that  cloudless  region  stooping, 

Downward  thou  didst  rush, 
Not  with  pinion  faint  and  drooping 

But  the  tempest's  gush. 
Up  again  undaunted  soaring, 

Thou  didst  pierce  the  cloud, 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      205 

When  the  warring  winds  were  roaring 
Fearfully  and  loud. 

Where  is  now  that  restless  longing 

After  higher  things  ? 
Come  they  not,  like  visions,  thronging 

On  their  airy  wings  ? 
Why  should  not  their  glow  enchant  thee 

Upward  to  their  bliss  ? 
Surely  danger  cannot  daunt  thee 

From  a  heaven  like  this. 

But  thou  slumberest ;  faint  and  quivering 

Hangs  thy  ruffled  wing; 
Like  a  dove  in  winter  shivering, 

Or  a  feebler  thing. 
Where  is  now  thy  might  and  motion, 

Thy  imperial  flight  ? 
Where  is  now  thy  heart's  devotion  ? 

Where  thy  spirit's  light  ? 

Hark  !  his  rustling  plumage  gathers 

Closer  to  his  side, 
Close,  as  when  the  storm-bird  weathers 

Ocean's  hurrying  tide. 
Now  his  nodding  beak  is  steady — 

Wide  his  burning  eye — 
Now  his  opening  wings  are  ready, 

And  his  aim — how  high ! 

Now  he  curves  his  neck,  and  proudly 

Now  is  stretched  for  flight — 
Hark  !  his  wings — they  thunder  loudly,, 

And  their  flash — how  bright ! 
Onward — onward  over  mountains, 

Through  the  rock  and  storm, 
Now,  like  sunset  over  fountains, 

Flits  his  glancing  form. 

Glorious  bird,  thy  dream  has  left  thee— 

Thou  hast  reached  thy  heaven — 
Lingering  slumber  hath  not  reft  thee 

Of  the  glory  given. 
With  a  bold,  a  fearless  pinion, 

On  thy  starry  road, 
None,  to  fame's  supreme  dominion, 

Mightier  ever  trode. 
18 


206  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


The  Spirit  of  Poetry. — Longfellow. 

There  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind  blows — 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast-ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled  eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  !     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,~pours  the  white  cascade, 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless  laughter 
And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 
Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 
And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.     And  here,  amid 
The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 
Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 
As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift. 

Hence  gifted  bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 

For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 

The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods — the  golden  sun — 

The  flowers — the  leaves — the  river  on  its  way — 

Blue  skies — and  silver  clouds — and  gentle  winds— 

The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 

Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes — 

Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in — 

Mountain — and  shattered  cliff— and  sunny  vale — 

The  distant  lake — fountains — and  mighty  trees — 

In  many  a  lazy  syllable  repeating 

Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit  that  doth  fill 

The  world  ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 

My  busy  fancy  oft  imbodies  it, 

As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 

That  dwell  in  nature — of  the  heavenly  forms 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  207 

We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 

That  lie  i'  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush  the  clouds 

When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  eye 

The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 

And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  was  hung, 

And  on  her  lip  the  rich  red  rose.     Her  hair 

Was  as  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 

When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her  cheek 

Blushed  all  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 

With  its  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath — 

It  was  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  spring, 

As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  was  a  joy 

To  have  it  round  us — and  her  silver  voice 

Was  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 

Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  cadence. 


Incomprehensibility  of  God* — Miss  Elizabeth  Townsend. 

"  I  go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there  ;  and  backward,  but  I  cannot  perceive 
him." 

Where  art  thou  ? — Thou  !  Source  and  Support  of  all 
That  is  or  seen  or  felt ;  Thyself  unseen, 
Unfelt,  unknown, — alas  !  unknowable  ! 
I  look  abroad  among  thy  works — the  sky, 
Vast,  distant,  glorious  with  its  world  of  suns, — 
Life-giving  earth, — and  ever-moving  main, — 
And  speaking  winds, — and  ask  if  these  are  Thee  ! 
The  stars  that  twinkle  on,  the  eternal  hills, 
The  restless  tide's  outgoing  and  return, 
The  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air — 

*  To  meet  with  such  a  piece  of  poetry  a3  this,  which  we  find  in  the  fifth 
volume  of  the  Unitarian  Miscellany,  would  repay  us  for  the  toil  of  looking 
through  whole  libraries.  It  is  equal  in  grandeur  to  the  celebrated  produc- 
tion of  Bryant — "  Thanatopsis  ;"  nor  will  it  suffer  by  a  comparison  with 
the  most  sublime  pieces  either  of  Wordsworth  or  of  Coleridge.  The  latter 
(with  a  feeling  akin  to  the  elevated  inspiration  which  animates  these  noble 
lines)  has  said, 

"  For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  Him, 

The  Incomprehensible  !  save  when  with  awe 

I  praise  Him,  and  with  Faith,  that  inly  feels  ; 

Who  with  his  saving  mercies  healed  me, 

A  sinful  and  most  miserable  man."  Ed. 


208  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Though  hailed  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less — 

Are  not  the  Power  I  seek ;  are  thine,  not  Thee  ! 

I  ask  Thee  from  the  past ;  if  in  the  years, 

Since  first  intelligence  could  search  its  source, 

Or  in  some  former  unremembered  being, 

(If  such,  perchance,  were  mine)  did  they  behold  Thee  ? 

And  next  interrogate  futurity — 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 

Than  e'er  experience  owned — but  both  are  mute  ; 

And  past  and  future,  vocal  on  all  else, 

So  full  of  memories  and  phantasies, 

Are  deaf  and  speechless  here  !  Fatigued,  I  turn 

From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements ; 

And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  inward. 

From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  guest, 

If,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul, 

He  may  vouchsafe  himself — Spirit  to  spirit ! 

O  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired, 

Pavilioned  still  in  darkness,  wilt  thou  hide  thee  ? 

What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate, 

Nor  human  eye  may  look  on  thine  and  live  ? 

Welcome  the  penalty !  let  that  come  now, 

Which  soon  or  late  must  come.     For  light  like  this 

Who  would  not  dare  to  die  ? 

Peace,  my  proud  aim, 
And  hush  the  wish  that  knows  not  what  it  asks. 
Await  his  will,  who  hath  appointed  this, 
With  every  other  trial.     Be  that  will 
Done  now,  as  ever.     For  thy  curious  search, 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him — the  Unrevealed — learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  highest  hope  with  humbleness. 
Pass  thy  novitiate  in  these  outer  courts, 
Till  rent  the  veil,  no  longer  separating 
The  Holiest  of  all — as  erst,  disclosing 
A  brighter  dispensation ;  whose  results 
Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 
E'en  to  the  perfecting  thyself — thy  kind — 
Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude, 
By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  heaven 
Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart ! 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  209 


Lament  of  a  Swiss  Minstrel  over  the  Ruins  of  Goldau. — 
J.  Neal. 

0  Switzerland,  my  country,  'tis  to  thee 

1  strike  my  harp  in  agony. 
My  country,  nurse  of  Liberty, 
Home  of  the  gallant,  great,  and  free, 
My  sullen  harp  I  strike  to  thee. 

O  !  I  have  lost  you  all ! 
Parents,  and  home,  and  friends: 

Ye  sleep  beneath  a  mountain  pall ; 
A  mountain's  plumage  o'er  you  bends. 
The  cliff-yew  of  funereal  gloom 
Is  now  the  only  mourning  plume 
That  nods  above  a  people's  tomb. 
Of  the  echoes  that  swim  o'er  thy  bright  blue  lake, 
And>  deep  in  its  caverns,  their  merry  bells  shake, 

And  repeat  the  young  huntsman's  cry — 
That  clatter  and  laugh  when  the  goatherds  take 
Their  browzing  flocks,  at  the  morning's  break, 
Far  over  the  hills, — not  one  is  awake 

In  the  swell  of  thy  peaceable  sky. 
They  sit  on  that  wave  with  a  motionless  wing, 
And  their  cymbals  are  mute ;  and  the  desert  birds  sing 
Their  unanswered  notes  to  the  wave  and  the  sky, 
,    As  they  stoop  their  broad  wing,  and  go  sluggishly  by : 
For  deep,  in  that  blue-bosomed  water,  is  laid 
As  innocent,  true,  and  as  lovely  a  maid 
As  ever  in  cheerfulness  carolled  her  song, 
In  the  blithe  mountain  air,  as  she  bounded  along. 
The  heavens  are  all  blue,  and  the  billow's  bright  verge 
Is  frothily  laved  by  a  whispering  surge, 
That  heaves,  incessant,  a  tranquil  dirge, 
To  lull  the  pale  forms  that  sleep  below — 
Forms  that  rock  as  the  waters  flow. 

That  bright  lake  is  still  as  a  liquid  sky  ; 
And  when  o'er  its  bosom  the  swift  clouds  fly, 
They  pass  like  thoughts  o'er  a  clear  blue  eye. 
The  fringe  of  thin  foam  that  their  sepulchre  binds 
Is  as  light  as  the  clouds  that  are  borne  by  the  winds. 
Soft  over  its  bosom  the  dim  vapors  hover 
In  morning's  first  light ;  and  the  snowy- winged  plover, 
That  skims  o'er  the  deep, 
Where  my  loved  ones  sleep, 
18* 


210  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

No  note  of  joy  on  this  solitude  flings, 

Nor  shakes  the  mist  from  his  drooping  wings. 

No  chariots  of  fire  on  the  clouds  careered  ; 
No  warrior's  arm  on  the  hills  was  reared ; 
No  death-angel's  trump  o'er  the  ocean  was  blown ; 
No  mantle  of  wrath  over  heaven  was  thrown  ; 
No  armies  of  light,  with  their  banners  of  flame. 
On  neighing  steeds,  through  the  sunset  came, 

Or  leaping  from  space  appeared ; 
No  earthquake  reeled  ;  no  Thunderer  stormed  ; 
No  fetterless  dead  o'er  the  bright  sky  swarmed ; 

No  voices  in  heaven  were  heard. 
But  the  hour  when  the  sun  in  his  pride  went  down, 

While  his  parting  hung  rich  o'er  the  world, 
While  abroad  o'er  the  sky  his  flush  mantle  was  blown, 
And  his  streamers  of  gold  were  unfurled, 
An  everlasting  hill  was  torn 
From  its  primeval  base,  and  borne, 
In  gold  and  crimson  vapors  dressed, 
To  where  a  people  are  at  rest. 
Slowly  it  came  in  its  mountain  wrath ; 
And  the  forest  vanished  before  its*  path  ; 
And  the  rude  cliffs  bowed ;  and  the  waters  fled ; 
And  the  living  were  buried,  while,  over  their  head, 
They  heard  the  full  march  of  their  foe  as  he  sped ; — 
And  the  valley  of  life  was  the  tomb  of  the  dead — 
The  mountain  sepulchre  of  all  I  loved  ! 
The  village  sank,  and  the  giant  trees 
Leaned  back  from  the  encountering  breeze, 
As  this  tremendous  pageant  moved. 
The  mountain  forsook  his  perpetual  throne, 
And  came  down  in  his  pomp  ;  and  his  path  is  shown 
In  barrenness  and  ruin : — there 
His  ancient  mysteries  lay  bare  ; 
His  roeks  in  nakedness  arise ; 
His  desolations  mock  the  skies. 
Sweet  vale,  Goldau,  farewell ! 
An  Alpine  monument  may  dwell 
Upon  thy  bosom,  0  my  home  ! 
The  mountain — thy  pall  and  thy  prison — may  keep  thee  ; 
I  shall  see  thee  no  more  ;  but  till  death  I  will  weep  thee  ; 
Of  thy  blue  dwelling  dream  wherever  I  roam, 
And  wish  myself  wrapped  in  its  peaceful  foam. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  211 


Lines  written  on  visiting  the  beautiful  Burying- ground  at 
New  Haven. — Christian  Disciple. 

O,  where  are  they,  whose  all  that  earth  could  give* 

Beneath  these  senseless  marbles  disappeared  ? 
Where  even  they  who  taught  these  stones  to  grieve — 

The  hands  that  hewed  them,  and  the  hearts  that  reared  ? 

Such  the  poor  bounds  of  all  that's  hoped  or  feared, 
Within  the  griefs  and  smiles  of  this  short  day ! 

Here  sunk  the  honored,  vanished  the  endeared  ; 
This  the  last  tribute  love  to  love  could  pay — 
An  idle,  pageant  pile  to  graces  passed  away. 

Why  deck  these  sculptured  trophies  of  the  tomb  ? 

Why,  victims,  garland  thus  the  spoiler's  fane  ? 
Hope  ye  by  these  to  avert  oblivion's  doom, 

In  grief  ambitious,  and  in  ashes  vain  ? 

Go,  rather,  bid  the  sand  the  trace  retain, 
Of  all  that  parted  virtue  felt  and  did  ! 

Yet  powerless  man  revolts  at  ruin's  reign  ; 

Hence  blazoned  flattery  mocks  pride's  coffin  lid  ; 

Hence  towered  on  Egypt's  plains  the  giant  pyramid. 

Sink,  mean  memorials  of  what  cannot  die  ; 

Be  lowly  as  the  relics  ye  o'erspread  ; 
Nor  lift  your  funeral  forms  so  gorgeously, 

To  tell  who  slumbers  in  each  narrow  bed  : 

I  would  not  honor  thus  the  sainted  dead, 
Nor  to  each  stranger's  careless  ear  declare 

My  sacred  griefs  for  joy  and  friendship  fled. 
O,  let  me  hide  the  names  of  those  that  were 
Deep  in  my  stricken  heart,  and  shrine  them  only  there ! 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers. — Pierpojyt. 

The  pilgrim  fathers — where  are  they  ? 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore  ; 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day, 

When  the  May-Flower  moored  below, 


212  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 
And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapped  the  pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the  gale,, 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone ; — 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  pilgrim  exile — sainted  name  ! — 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hill-side  "and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head  ; — 

But  the  pilgrim — where  is  he  ? 

The  pilgrim  fathers  are  at  rest : 

When  Summer's  throned  on  high,- 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  May-Flower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


Song  of  the  PUgrim$.—T.  C.  Upham. 

The  breeze  has  swelled  the  whitening  sail, 
The  blue  waves  curl  beneath  the  gale, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  21^ 

And,  bounding  with  the  wave  and  wind, 
We  leave  Old  England's  shores  behind — 

Leave  behind  our  native  shore, 

Homes,  and  all  we  loved  before. 

The  deep  may  dash,  the  winds  may  blow, 
The  storm  spread  out  its  wings  of  wo, 
Till  sailors'  eyes  can  see  a  shroud 
Hung  in  the  folds  of  every  cloud ; 

Still,  as  long  as  life  shall  last, 

From  that  shore  we'll  speed  us  fast. 

For  we  would  rather  never  be, 
Than  dwell  where  mind  cannot  be  free, 
But  bows  beneath  a  despot's  rod 
Even  where  it  seeks  to  worship  God. 

Blasts  of  heaven,  onward  sweep  ! 

Bear  us  o'er  the  troubled  deep ! 

O,  see  what  wonders  meet  our  eyes ! 
Another  land,  and  other  skies ! 
Columbian  hills  have  met  our  view  ! 
Adieu !  Old  England's  shores,  adieu  ! 

Here,  at  length,  our  feet  shall  rest, 

Hearts  be  free,  and  homes  be  blessed. 

As  long  as  yonder  firs  shall  spread 

Their  green  arms  o'er  the  mountain's  head, — 

As  long  as  yonder  cliffs  shall  stand, 

Where  join  the  ocean  and  the  land, — 

Shall  those  cliffs  and  mountains  be 

Proud  retreats  for  liberty. 

Now  to  the  King  of  kings  we'll  raise 
The  paean  loud  of  sacred  praise  ; 
More  loud  than  sounds  the  swelling  breeze, 
More  loud  than  speak  the  rolling  seas ! 

Happier  lands  have  met  our  view  ! 

England's  shores,  adieu  !  adieu  ! 


Dedication  Hytnn. — N.  P.  Willis. 

The  perfect  world  by  Adam  trod 
Was  the  first  temple — built  by  God  : 


21-1  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

His  fiat  laid  the  corner  stone, 
And  heaved  its  pillars,  one  by  one. 

He  hung  its  starry  roof  on  high — 

The  broad  illimitable  sky ; 

He  spread  its  pavement,  green  and  bright, 

And  curtained  it  with  morning  light. 

The  mountains  in  their  places  stood — 
The  sea — the  sky — and  "  all  was  good  ;" 
And,  when  its  first  pure  praises  rang, 
The  "  morning  stars  together  sang." 

Lord,  'tis  not  ours  to  make  the  sea, 
And  earth,  and  sky,  a  house  for  thee  ; 
But  in  thy  sight  our  offering  stands — 
A  humbler  temple,  "  made  with  hands." 


Extract  from  a  Poem  written  on  reading  an  Account  of  the 
Opinions  of  a  Deaf  and  Dumb  Child,  before  she  had  re- 
ceived Instruction.  She  wasJifraid  of  the  Swi,  Moon, 
and  Stars. — H«^«trct9«.^^^^^^/>»*-t--*-wr 

And  didst  thou  fear  the  queen  of  night, 

Poor  mute  and  musing  child  ? 
She  who,  with  pure  and  silver  light, 

Gladdens  the  loneliest  wild  ? 
Yet  her  the  savage  marks  serene, 
Chequering  his  clay-built  cabin's  scene  : 
Her  the  polar  natives  bless,  * 

Bowing  low  in  gentleness, 
To  bathe  with  liquid  beams  their  rayless  night : 
Her  the  lone  sailor,  while  his  watch  he  keeps, 
Hails,  as  her  fair  lamp  gilds  the  troubled  deeps, 
Cresting  each  snowy  wave  that  o'er  its  fellow  sweeps : 
E'en  the  lost  maniac  loves  her  light, 
Uttering  to  her,  with  fixed  eye, 
Wild  symphonies,  he  knows  not  why. — 
Sad  was  thy  fate,  my  child,  to  see, 
In  nature's  gentlest  friend,  a  foe  severe  to  thee. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  215 

Being  of  lonely  thought,  the  world  to  thee 
Was  a  deep  maze,  and  all  things  moving  on 

In  darkness  and  in  mystery.     But  He, 

Who  made  these  beauteous  forms  that  fade  anon, 

What  was  He  ? — From  thy  brow  the  roses  fled 

At  that  eternal  question,  fathomless  and  dread ! 

O,  snatched  from  ignorance  and  pain, 

And  taught,  with  seraph  eye, 
At  yon  unmeasured  orbs  to  gaze, 
And  trace,  amid  their  quenchless  blaze, 
Thine  own  high  destiny ! 
Forever  bless  the  hands  that  burst  thy  chain, 
And  led  thy  doubtful  steps  to  learning's  hallowed  fane. 

Though  from  thy  guarded  lips  may  press 
No  word  of  gratitude  or  tenderness, — 
In  the  starting  tear,  the  glowing  cheek, 
With  tuneful  tongue,  the  soul  can  speak ; 
Her  tone  is  in  the  sigh, 
Her  language  in  the  eye, 
Her  voice  of  harmony,  a  life  of  praise, 
Well  understood  by  Him  who  notes  our  searching  ways. 

The  tomb  shall  burst  thy  fetters.     Death  sublime 
Shall  bear  away  the  seal  of  time, 

So  long  in  wo  bewailed  ! 
Thou,  who  no  melody  of  earth  hast  known, 
Nor  chirp  of  birds,  their  wind-rocked  cell  that  rear, 
Nor  waters  murmuring  lone, 
Nor  organ's  solemn  peal,  nor  viol  clear, 
Nor  warbling  breath  of  man,  that  joins  the  hymning  sphere- 
Can  speech  of  mortals  tell 
What  tides  of  bliss  shall  swell, 
If  the  Jirst  summons  to  thy  wakened  ear 
Should  be  the  plaudits  of  thy  Savior's  love, 
The  full,  enraptured  choir  of  the  redeemed  above  ? 


The  Land  of  the  Blest.— W.  0.  B.  Peabody. 

O,  when  the  hours  of  life  are  past, 
And  death's  dark  shade  arrives  at  last, 


216  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

It  is  not  sleep,  it  is  not  rest ; 
Tis  glory  opening  to  the  blest. 

Their  way  to  heaven  was  pure  from  sin, 
And  Christ  shall  there  receive  them  in  : 
There,  each  shall  wear  a  robe  of  light, 
Like  his,  divinely  fair  and  bright. 

There,  parted  hearts  again  shall  meet, 
In  union  holy,  calm,  and  sweet ; 
There,  grief  find  rest ;  and  never  more 
Shall  sorrow  call  them  to  deplore. 

There,  angels  will  unite  their  prayers 
With  spirits  bright  and  blest  as  theirs  ; 
And  light  shall  glance  on  every  crown, 
From  suns  that  never  more  go  down. 

No  storms  shall  ride  the  troubled  air  ; 
No  voice  of  passion  enter  there  ; 
But  all  be  peaceful  as  the  sigh 
Of  evening  gales,  that  breathe,  and  die. 

For  there  the  God  of  mercy  sheds 
His  purest  influence  on  their  heads, 
And  gilds  the  spirits  round  the  throne 
With  glory  radiant  as  his  own. 


To  the  Moon. — Massachusetts  Spy. 

Queen  of  the  silver  bow  !  by  thy  pale  beam, 

Alone,  and  pensive,  I  delight  to  stray, 
And  watch  thy  shadow,  trembling  in  the  stream, 

Or  mark  the  floating  clouds  that  cross  thy  way ; 
And,  while  I  gaze,  thy  mild  and  placid  light 

Sheds  a  soft  calm  upon  my  troubled  breast ; 
And  oft  I  think,  fair  planet  of  the  night, 

That  in  thy  orb  the  wretched  may  have  rest. 

The  sufferers  of  the  earth,  perhaps,  may  go, 
Released  by  death,  to  thy  benignant  sphere, 


L 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  217 

And  the  sad  children  of  despair  and  wo 

Forget,  in  thee,  their  cup  of  sorrow  here. 
O,  that  I  soon  may  reach  that  world  serene, 
Poor  weary  pilgrim  in  this  toiling  scene  ! 


Song, — From  Yamoyden. 

They  say,  that,  afar  in  the  land  of  the  west, 
Where  the  bright  golden  sun  sinks  in  glory  to  rest, 
'Mid  fens  where  the  hunter  ne'er  ventured  to  tread, 
A  fair  lake,  unruffled  and  sparkling,  is  spread ; 
Where,  lost  in  his  course,  the  rapt  Indian  discovers, 
In  distance  seen  dimly,  the  green  isle  of  lovers. 

There  verdure  fades  never  ;  immortal  in  bloom, 
Soft  waves  the  magnolia  its  groves  of  perfume  ; 
And  low  bends  the  branch  with  rich  fruitage  depressed, 
All  glowing  like  gems  in  the  crowns  of  the  east ; 
There  the  bright  eye  of  nature  in  mild  glory  hovers : 
'Tis  the  land  of  the  sunbeam,  the  green  isle  of  lovers. 

Sweet  strains  wildly  float  on  the  breezes  that  kiss 
The  calm-flowing  lake  round  that  region  of  bliss  ; 
Where,  wreathing  their  garlands  of  amaranth,  fair  choirs 
Glad  measures  still  weave  to  the  sound  that  inspires 
The  dance  and  the  revel,  'mid  forests  that  cover, 
On  high,  with  their  shade,  the  green  isle  of  the  lover. 

But  fierce  as  the  snake,  with  his  eyeballs  of  fire, 
When  his  scales  are  all  brilliant  and  glowing  with  ire, 
Are  the  warriors  to  all,  save  the  maids  of  their  isle, 
Whose  law  is  their  will,  and  whose  life  is  their  smile; 
From  beauty,  there,  valor  and  strength  are  not  rovers* 
And  peace  reigns  supreme  in  the  green  isle  of  lovers. 

And  he  who  has  sought  to  set  foot  on  its  shore, 
In  mazes  perplexed,  has  beheld  it  no  more  ; 
It  fleets  on  the  vision,  deluding  the  view  ; 
Its  banks  still  retire  as  the  hunters  pursue  : 
O,  who,  in  this  vain  world  of  wo,  shall  discover 
The  home  undisturbed,  the  green  isle  of  the  lover ! 
19 


218  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


The  Light  of  Home. — Mrs.  Hale. 

My  boy,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 

And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam ; 
And  thou  must  go  ;  but  never,  when  there, 

Forget  the  light  of  home. 

Though  pleasure  may  smile  with  a  ray  more  bright, 

It  dazzles  to  lead  astray : 
Like  the  meteor's  flash,   twill  deepen  the  night, 

When  thou  treadest  the  lonely  way. 

But  the  hearth  of  home  has  a  constant  flame, 

And  pure  as  vestal  fire  : 
'Twill  burn,  'twill  burn,  for  ever  the  same, 

For  nature  feeds  the  pyre. 

The  sea  of  ambition  is  tempest  tost, 
And  thy  hopes  may  vanish  like  foam ; 

But  when  sails  are  shivered  and  rudder  lost, 
Then  look  to  the  light  of  home ; — 

And  there,  like  a  star  through  the  midnight  cloud, 

Thou  shalt  see  the  beacon  bright ; 
For  never,  till  shining  on  thy  shroud, 

Can  be  quenched  its  holy  light. 

The  sun  of  fame,  'twill  gild  the  name  ; 

But  the  heart  ne'er  felt  its  ray ; 
And  fashion's  smiles,  that  rich  ones  claim, 

Are  but  beams  of  a  wintry  day. 

And  how  cold  and  dim  those  beams  must  be, 
Should  life's  wretched  wanderer  come ! 

But,  my  boy,  when  the  world  is  dark  to  thee, 
Then  turn  to  the  light  of  home. 


The  American  Flag. — F.  G.  Halleck. 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 


COMMON-PLACE    DOUK    OF    POETRY.  219 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ; 
She  mingled  with  the  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white, 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun. 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumping  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning-lances  driven, 

When  stride  the  warriors  of  the  storm 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, — 
Child  of  the  Sun,  to  thee  'tis  given, 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbinger  of  victory. 

Flag  of  the  brave,  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph,  high. 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet-tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on, 
(Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glist'ning  bayonet,) 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  meteor-glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance 
And,  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave,  in  wild  wreaths,  the  battle  shroud, 
And  glory,— sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall  ! 
There  shall  thy  victor-glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas,  on  ocean's  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave, 


220  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frightened  waves  rush  wildly  back, 
Before  the  broad-side's  reeling  rack ; 
The  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly, 
In  triumph,  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  hearts'  only  home, 

By  angel-hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe,  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 


To  the  Ursa  Major. — Henry  Ware,  Jr.* 

With  what  a  stately  and  majestic  step 
That  glorious  constellation  of  the  north 
Treads  its  eternal  circle  !  going  forth 
Its  princely  way  amongst  the  stars  in  slow 
And  silent  brightness.     Mighty  one,  all  hail ! 
I  joy  to  see  thee  on  thy  glowing  path 
Walk,  like  some  stout  and  girded  giant — stern, 
Unwearied,  resolute,  whose  toiling  foot 
Disdains  to  loiter  on  its  destined  way. 
The  other  tribes  forsake  their  midnight  track, 
And  rest  their  weary  orbs  beneath  the  wave  ; 
But  thou  dost  never  close  thy  burning  eye, 
Nor  stay  thy  steadfast  step.     But  on,  still  on, 
While  systems  change,  and  suns  retire,  and  worlds 
Slumber  and  wake,  thy  ceaseless  march  proceeds. 
The  near  horizon  tempts  to  rest  in  vain. 
Thou,  faithful  sentinel,  dost  never  quit 
Thy  long  appointed  watch ;  but,  sleepless  still, 
Dost  guard  the  fixed  light  of  the  universe, 
And  bid  the  north  forever  know  its  place. 

*  We  have  read  this  piece  with  regret,  that  one  who  can  write  in  a  strain 
bo  truly  sublime,  should  have  given  his  mind  so  sparingly,  and,  as  it  were, 
by  stealth,  to  the  effort  of  poetical  composition. — Ed. 


COMMON-PLACE    HOOK    OF    POETRY.  221 

Ages  have  witnessed  thy  devoted  trust, 
Unchanged,  unchanging;.     When  the  sons  of  God 
Sent  forth  that  shout  of  joy  which  rang  through  heaven, 
And  echoed  from  the  outer  spheres  that  bound 
The  illimitable  universe,  thy  voice 
Joined  the  high  chorus  ;  from  thy  radiant  orbs 
The  glad  cry  sounded,  swelling  to  His  praise, 
Who  thus  had  cast  another  sparkling  gem, 
Little,  but  beautiful,  amid  the  crowd 
Of  splendors  that  enrich  his  firmament. 
As  thou  art  now,  so  wast  thou  then  the  same. 
Ages  have  rolled  their  course,  and  time  grown  gray; 
The  earth  has  gathered  to  her  womb  again, 
And  yet  again,  the  myriads  that  were  born 
Of  her  uncounted,  unremembered  tribes. 
The  seas  have  changed  their  beds — the  eternal  hills 
Have  stooped  with  age — the  solid  continents 
Have  left  their  banks — and  man's  imperial  works — 
The  toil,  pride,  strength  of  kingdoms,  which  had  flung 
Their  haughty  honors  in  the  face  of  heaven. 
As  if  immortal — have  been  swept  away — 
Shattered  and  mouldering,  buried  and  forgot. 
But  time  has  shed  no  dimness  on  thy  front, 
Nor  touched  the  firmness  of  thy  tread ;  youth,  strength, 
And  beauty  still  are  thine — as  clear,  as  bright, 
As  when  the  Almighty  Former  sent  thee  forth, 
Beautiful  offspring  of  his  curious  skill, 
To  watch  earth's  northern  beacon,  and  proclaim 
The  eternal  chorus  of  eternal  Love. 

I  wonder  as  I  gaze.     That  stream  of  light, 
Undimmed,  unquenched, — just  as  I  see  it  now, — 
Has  issued  from  those  dazzling  points,  through  years 
That  go  back  far  into  eternityr 
Exhaustless  flood  !  forever  spent,  renewed 
Forever !     Yea,  and  those  refulgent  drops, 
Which  now  descend  upon  my  lifted  eye, 
Left  their  far  fountain  twice  three  years  ago. 
While  those  winged  particles,  whose  speed  outstrips 
The  flight  of  thought,  were  on  their  way,  the  earth 
Compassed  its  tedious  circuit  round  and  round, 
And,  in  the  extremes  of  annual  change,  beheld 
Six  autumns  fade,  six  springs  renew  their  bloom. 
So  far  from  earth  those  mighty  orbs  revolve ! 
So  vast  the  void  through  which  their  beams  descend ! 
19  * 


222  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Yea,  glorious  lamps  of  God  !   lie  may  have  quenched 
Your  ancient  flames,  and  bid  eternal  night 
Rest  on  your  spheres ;  and  yet  no  tidings  reach 
This  distant  planet.     Messengers  still  come 
Laden  with  your  far  fire,  and  we  may  seem 
To  see  your  lights  still  burning ;  while  their  blaze 
But  hides  the  black  wreck  of  extinguished  realms, 
Where  anarchy  and  darkness  long  have  reigned. 

Yet  what  is  this,  which  to  the  astonished  mind 
Seems  measureless,  and  which  the  baffled  thought 
Confounds  ?     A  span,  a  point,  in  those  domains 
Which  the  keen  eye  can  traverse.     Seven  stars 
Dwell  in  that  brilliant  cluster,  and  the  sight 
Embraces  all  at  once  ;  yet  each  from  each 
Recedes  as  far  as  each  of  them  from  earth. 
And  every  star  from  every  other  burns 
No  less  remote.     From  the  profound  of  heaven, 
Untravelled  even  in  thought,  keen,  piercing  rays 
Dart  through  the  void,  revealing  to  the  sense 
Systems  and  worlds  unnumbered.     Take  the  glass, 
And  search  the  skies.    The  opening  skies  pour  down 
Upon  your  gaze  thick  showers  of  sparkling  fire — 
Stars,  crowded,  thronged,  in  regions  so  remote, 
That  their  swift  beams — the  swiftest  things  that  be — 
Have  travelled  centuries  on  their  flight  to  earth. 
Earth,  sun,  and  nearer  constellations  !  what 
Are  ye,  amid  this  infinite  extent 
And  multitude  of  God's  most  infinite  works  ! 

And  these  are  suns  ! — vast,  central,  living  fires, 
Lords  of  dependent  systems,  kings  of  worlds 
That  wait  as  satellites  upon  their  power, 
And  flourish  in  their  smile.     Awake,  my  soul, 
And  meditate  the  wonder  !     Countless  suns 
Blaze  round  thee,  leading  forth  their  countless  worlds ! — 
Worlds  in  whose  bosoms  living  things  rejoice, 
And  drink  the  bliss  of  being  from  the  fount 
Of  all-pervading  Love.     What  mind  can  know, 
What  tongue  can  utter,  all  their  multitudes ! 
Thus  numberless  in  numberless  abodes  ! 
Known  but  to  thee,  blessed  Father !     Thine  they  are, 
Thy  children,  and  thy  care — and  none  o'erlooked 
Of  thee  !     No,  not  the  humblest  soul  that  dwells 
Upon  the  humblest  globe,  which  wheels  its  course 
Amid  the  giant  glories  of  the  sky, 
Like  the  mean  mote  that  dances  in  the  beam 


COMMON-PLAGE    TOOK    OF    POETRY.  223 

Amongst  the  mirrored  lamps,  which  fling 
Their  wasteful  splendor  from  the  palace  wall 
None,  none  escape  the  kindness  of  thy  care  ; 
All  compassed  underneath  thy  spacious  wing, 
Each  fed  and  guided  by  thy  powerful  hand. 

Tell  me,  ye  splendid  orbs  !  as  from  your  throne, 
Ye  mark  the  rolling  provinces  that  own 
Your  sway — what  beings  fill  those  bright  abodes  ? 
How  formed,  how  gifted  ?  what  their  powers,  their  state, 
Their  happiness,  their  wisdom  ?     Do  they  bear 
The  stamp  of  human  nature  ?     Or  has  God 
Peopled  those  purer  realms  with  lovelier  forms 
And  more  celestial  minds  ?     Does  Innocence 
Still  wear  her  native  and  untainted  bloom  ? 
Or  has  Sin  breathed  his  deadly  blight  abroad, 
And  sowed  corruption  in  those  fairy  bowers  ? 
Has  War  trod  o'er  them  with  his  foot  of  fire  ? 
And  Slavery  forged  his  chains;  and  Wrath,  and  Hate, 
And  sordid  Selfishness,  and  cruel  Lust, 
Leagued  their  base  bands  to  tread  out  light  and  truth, 
And  scatter  wo  where  Heaven  had  planted  joy  : 
Or  are  they  yet  all  paradise,  unfallen 
And  uncorrupt  ?  existence  one  long  joy, 
Without  disease  upon  the  frame,  or  sin 
Upon  the  heart,  or  weariness  of  life — 
Hope  never  quenched,  and  age  unknown, 
And  death  unfeared ;  while  fresh  and  fadeless  youth 
Glows  in  the  light  from  God's  near  throne  of  love  ? 

Open  your  lips,  ye  wonderful  and  fair ! 
Speak,  speak!  the  nwsteries  of  those  living  worlds 
Unfold  ! — No  language  ?     Everlasting  light, 
And  everlasting  silence  ? — Yet  the  eye 
May  read  and  understand.     The  hand  of  God 
Has  written  legibly  what  man  may  know, 
The  glory  of  the  Maker.     There  it  shines, 
Ineffable,  unchangeable  ;  and  man, 
Bound  to  the  surface  of  this  pigmy  globe, 
May  know  and  ask  no  more.     In  other  days, 
When  death  shall  give  the  encumbered  spirit  wings, 
Its  range  shall  be  extended ;  it  shall  roam, 
Perchance,  amongst  those  vast  mysterious  spheres, 
Shall  pass  from  orb  to  orb,  and  dwell  in  each 
Familiar  with  its  children — learn  their  laws, 
And  share  their  state,  and  study  and  adore 
The  infinite  varieties  of  bliss 


224  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  beauty,  by  the  hand  of  Power    divine 
Lavished  on  all  its  works.     Eternity 
Shall  thus  roll  on  with  ever  fresh  delight ; 
No  pause  of  pleasure  or  improvement;  world 
On  world  still  opening  to  the  instructed  mind 
An  unexhausted  universe,  and  time 
But  adding  to  its  glories.     While  the  soul, 
Advancing  ever  to  the  Source  of  light 
And  all  perfection,  lives,  adores,  and  reigns 
In  cloudless  knowledge,  purity,  and  bliss. 


"  Look  not  upon  the  Wine  when  it  is  red" — N.  P.  Willii 

Look  not  upon  the  wine  when  it 

Is  red  within  the  cup ! 
Stay  not  for  Pleasure  when  she  fills 

Her  tempting  beaker  up  ! 
Though  clear  its  depths,  and  rich  its  glow, 
A  spell  of  madness  lurks  below. 

They  say  'tis  pleasant  on  the  lip, 

And  merry  on  the  brain : 
They  say  it  stirs  the  sluggish  blood. 

And  dulls  the  tooth  of  pain. 
Ay — but  within  its  glowing  deeps 
A  stinging  serpent,  unseen,  sleeps. 

Its  rosy  lights  will  turn  to  fire, 

Its  coolness  change  to  thirst ; 
And,  by  its  mirth,  within  the  brain 

A  sleepless  worm  is  nursed. 
There's  not  a  bubble  at  the  brim 
That  does  not  carry  food  for  him. 

Then  dash  the  brimming  cup  aside, 

And  spill  its  purple  wine  : 
Take  not  its  madness  to  thy  lip — 

Let  not  its  curse  be  thine. 
'Tis  red  and  rich — but  grief  and  wo 
Are  hid  those  rosy  depths  below. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  225 


j<0  *  *  *  *^  (m  tfic  D^fa  0f  a  Friend. — Andrews  Norton. 

O  stay  thy  tears  ;  for  they  are  blessed, 

Whose  days  are  passed,  whose  toil  is  done; 

Here  midnight  care  disturbs  our  rest, 
Here  sorrow  dims  the  noon-day  sun. 

For  laboring  virtue's  anxious  toil, 

For  patient  sorrow's  stifled  sigh, 
For  faith  that  marks  the  conqueror's  spoil, 

Heaven  grants  the  recompense,  to  die. 

How  blessed  are  they,  whose  transient  years 
Pass  like  an  evening  meteor's  flight; 

Not  dark  with  guilt,  nor  dim  with  tears ; 
Whose  course  is  short,  unclouded,  bright. 

O  cheerless  were  our  lengthened  way ; 

But  heaven's  own  light  dispels  the  gloom, 
Streams  downward  from  eternal  day, 

And  casts  a  glory  round  the  tomb. 

Then  stay  thy  tears  ;  the  blessed  above 
Have  hailed  a  spirit's  heavenly  birth, 

Sung  a  new  song  of  joy  and  love ; 

And  why  should  anguish  reign  on  earth  ? 


Dirge  of  Alaric  the  Visigoth.-— Edward  Everett. 

Alaric  stormed  and  spoiled  the  city  of  Rome,  and  was  afterwards  buried  in 
the  channel  of  the  river  Busentius,  the  water  of  which  had  been  diverted 
from  its  course  that  the  body  might  be  interred. 

When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain 
Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear ; 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 
Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose  ; 


226  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 
In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes ; 
Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath, 
Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest; 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 

On  him  that  was  "  the  scourge  of  God." 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream  shall  turn, 

And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  for  ever  there  : 
Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 
Flow  back  upon  the  king  of  kings  ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said, 
Until  the  deep  give  up  his  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 

Back  to  the  clods,  that  gave  them  birth  ;— 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king, 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth  : 

For,  e'en  though  dead,  will  I  control 

The  trophies  of  the  capitol. 

But  when,  beneath  the  mountain  tide, 

Ye've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 
Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 

Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot ; 
For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 
Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look  ; 
And,  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 
The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

My  course  was  like  a  river  deep, 
And  from  the  northern  hills  I  burst, 

Across  the  world,  in  wrath  to  sweep, 
And  where  I  went  the  spot  was  cursed, 

Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

Where  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 

See  how  their  haughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terror  of  the  Goth, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   POETRV.  227 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail 

Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth, 
And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels, 
And  grovels  at  my  chariot- wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 

In  judgment  my  triumphal  car; 
'Twas  God  alone  on  high  did  send 

The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 
To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 
The  appointed  scourge  of  his  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  reared 

O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm  ; 
Destruction  was  the  ship  I  steered, 

And  vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm, 
When,  launched  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  ploughed  my  way  through  seas  of  blood, 
And,  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt, 
Washed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers, 
And  feeble  Csesars  shrieked  for  help, 

In  vain,  within  their  seven-hilled  towers; 
I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 
That  glittered  in  their  diadem, 
And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  die 
In  the  purple  of  their  majesty, 
And  bade  my  northern  banners  shine 
Upon  the  conquered  Palatine. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done ; 

I  go  to  Him  from  whom  I  came ; 
But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 

Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name  ; 
And  Roman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 
When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done ; 

But  darker  ministers  of  fate, 
Impatient,  round  the  eternal  throne, 

And  in  the  caves  of  vengeance,  wait; 
And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away 
Before  the  name  of  Attila. 


228  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Apostrophe  to  the  Sun. — J.  G.  Percival. 

Centre  of  light  and  energy,  thy  way 

Is  through  the  unknown  void ;  thou  hast  thy  throne, 
Morning,  and  evening,  and  at  noon  of  day, 

Far  in  the  blue,  untended  and  alone : 

Ere  the  first-wakened  airs  of  earth  had  blown, 
On  didst  thou  march,  triumphant  in  thy  light ; 

Then  didst  thou  send  thy  glance,  which  still  hath  flown 
Wide  through  the  never-ending  worlds  of  night, 
And  yet  thy  full  orb  burns  with  flash  unquenched  and  bright. 


Thy  path  is  high  in  heaven  ; — we  cannot  gaze 
On  the  intense  of  light  that  girds  thy  car; 

There  is  a  crown  of  glory  in  thy  rays, 
Which  bears  thy  pure  divinity  afar, 
To  mingle  with  the  equal  light  of  star; 

For  thou,  so  vast  to  us,  art,  in  the  whole, 
One  of  the  sparks  of  night  that  fire  the  air ; 

And,  as  around  thy  centre  planets  roll, 
So  thou,  too,  hast  thy  path  around  the  central  soul. 


Thou  lookest  on  the  earth,  and  then  it  smiles  ; 

Thy  light  is  hid, — and  all  things  droop  and  mourn  ; 
Laughs  the  wide  sea  around  her  budding  isles, 

When  through  their  heaven  thy  changing  car  is  borne ; 

Thou  wheel'st  away  thy  flight, — the  woods  are  shorn 
Of  all  their  waving  locks,  and  storms  awake  ; 

All,  that  was  once  so  beautiful,  is  torn 
By  the  wild  winds  which  plough  the  lonely  lake, 
And,  in  their  maddening  rush,  the  crested  mountains  shake. 

The  earth  lies  buried  in  a  shroud  of  snow  ; 

Life  lingers,  and  would  die,  but  thy  return 
Gives  to  their  gladdened  hearts  an  overflow 

Of  all  the  power,  that  brooded  in  the  urn 

Of  their  chilled  frames,  and  then  they  proudly  spurn 
All  bands  that  would  confine,  and  give  to  air 

Hues,  fragrance,  shapes  of  beauty  till  they  burn, 
When,  on  a  dewy  morn,  thou  dartest  there 
Rich  waves  of  gold  to  wreath  with  fairer  light  the  fair. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETIIY.  2*29 

The  vales  are  thine  : — and  when  the  touch  of  spring 
Thrills  thern,  and  gives  them  gladness,  in  thy  light 

They  glitter,  as  the  glancing  swallow's  wing 
Dashes  the  water  in  his  winding  flight, 
And  leaves  behind  a  wave,  that  crinkles  bright, 

And  widens  outward  to  the  pebbled  shore  ; — 

The  vales  are  thine  ;  and,  when  they  wake  from  night, 

The  dews  that  bend  the  grass  tips,  twinkling  o'er 
Their  soft  and  oozy  beds,  look  upward  and  adore. 

The  hills  are  thine  : — they  catch  thy  newest  beam, 
And  gladden  in  thy  parting,  where  the  wood 

Flames  out  in  every  leaf,  and  drinks  the  stream, 
That  flows  from  out  thy  fulness,  as  a  flood 
Bursts  from  an  unknown  land,  and  rolls  the  food 

Of  nations  in  its  waters  ;  so  thy  rays 

Flow,  and  give  brighter  tints  than  ever  bud, 

When  a  clear  sheet  of  ice  reflects  a  blaze 
Of  many  twinkling  gems,  as  every  glossed  bough  plays. 

Thine  are  the  mountains, — where  they  purely  lift 

Snows  that  have  never  wasted,  in  a  sky 
Which  hath  no  stain ;  below,  the  storm  may  drift 

Its  darkness,  and  the  thunder-gust  roar  by  ; — 

Aloft,  in  thy  eternal  smile,  they  lie, 
Dazzling,  but  cold ; — thy  farewell  glance  looks  there, 

And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty  die, 
Girt  round  them,  as  a  rosy  belt,  they  bear, 
Into  the  high,  dark  vault,  a  brow  that  still  is  fair. 

The  clouds  are  thine  ;  and  all  their  magic  hues 
Are  pencilled  by  thee  ;  when  thou  bendest  low, 

Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand  imbues 
Their  waving  folds  with  such  a  perfect  glow 
Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures  throw 

Shame  on  the  proudest  art ;         *         *         * 


These  are  thy  trophies,  and  thou  bend'st  thy  arch, 
The  sign  of  triumph,  in  a  seven-fold  twine, 

Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  on  its  march ; 
And  there  the  glories  of  thy  light  combine, 
And  form,  with  perfect  curve,  a  lifted  line 

Striding  the  earth  and  air ; — man  looks  and  tells 
How  peace  and  mercy  in  its  beauty  shine, 
20 


230  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  how  the  heavenly  messenger  impels 
Her  glad  wings  on  the  path  that  thus  in  ether  swells. 

The  ocean  is  thy  vassal  : — thou  dost  sway 

His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they  go 
Where  thou,  in  heaven,  dost  guide  them  on  their  way, 

Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  flow ; 

Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they  glow, 
And  take  them  wings  and  spring  aloft  in  air, 

And  change  to  clouds,  and  then,  dissolving,  throw 
Their  treasures  back  to  earth,  and,  rushing,  tear 
The  mountain  and  the  vale,  as  proudly  on  they  bear. 


In  thee,  first  light,  the  bounding  ocean  smiles, 

When  the  quick  winds  uprear  it  in  a  swell, 
That  rolls  in  glittering  green  around  the  isles, 

Where  ever-springing  fruits  and  blossoms  dwell. 

0,  with  a  joy  no  gifted  tongue  can  tell, 
I  hurry  o'er  the  waters  when  the  sail 

Swells  tensely,  and  the  light  keel  glances  well 
Over  the  curling  billow,  and  the  gale 
Comes  off  from  spicy  groves  to  tell  its  winning  tale. 


"  I  thought  it  slept." — Henry  Pickering, 

From  Recollections  of  Childhood. 

I  saw  the  infant  cherub — soft  it  lay, 
As  it  was  wont,  within  its  cradle,  now 
Decked  with  sweet  smelling  flowers.     A  sight  so  strange 
Filled  my  young  breast  with  wonder,  and  I  gazed 
Upon  the  babe  the  more.     I  thought  it  slept— 
And  yet  its  little  bosom  did  not  move  ! 
I  bent  me  down  to  look  into  its  eyes, 
But  they  were  closed  ;  then  softly  clasped  its  hand ; 
But  mine  it  would  not  clasp.     What  should  I  do  ? 
"  Wake,  brother,  wake !"  I  then,  impatient,  cried; 
"  Open  thine  eyes,  and  look  on  me  again!" 
He  would  not  hear  my  voice.     All  pale  beside 
My  weeping  mother  sat,  "  and  gazed  and  looked 
Unutterable  things."     "  Will  he  not  wake  ?" 
I  eager  asked.     She  answered  but  with  tears. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  231 

Her  eyes  on  me,  at  length,  with  piteous  look, 

Were  cast — now  on  the  babe  once  more  were  fixed — 

And  now  on  me  :  then,  with  convulsive  sigh 

And  throbbing  heart,  she  clasped  me  in  her  arms, 

And,  in  a  tone  of  anguish,  faintly  said — 

"  My  dearest  boy,  thy  brother  does  not  sleep  ; 

Alas!  he's  dead  ;  he  never  will  awake." 

He's  dead !  I  knew  not  what  it  meant,  but  more 

To  know  I  sought  not.     For  the  words  so  sad — 

"  He  never  will  awake" — sunk  in  my  soul : 

I  felt  a  pang  unknown  before  ;  and  tears, 

That  angels  might  have  shed,  my  heart  dissolved.* 


The  Snow- Storm. — Anonymous. 

The  cold  winds  swept  the  mountain's  height, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 
And,  'mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night, 

A  mother  wandered  with  her  child. 
As  through  the  drifted  snows  she  pressed, 
The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 

And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 
And  deeper  grew  the  drifts  of  snow — 

Her  limbs  were  chilled,  her  strength  was  gone — 
"  O  God,"  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 
"  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child  !" 

She  stripped  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 

And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 
And  round  the  child  she  wrapped  the  vest, 

And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 
With  one  cold  kiss,  one  tear  she  shed, 
And  sunk  upon  a  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn,  a  traveller  passed  by  : 
She  lay  beneath  a  snowy  veil  ; 

*  From  this  little  tale  of  unaffected,  childish  sorrow,  Mr.  Agate  (an  esti- 
mable young  artist  of  New  York)  has  produced  a  very  touching  picture. 
[t  was  exhibited  at  the  National  Academy  in  that  city. 


232  I'OMMOX-PLACE     BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye ; 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale  ; — 
He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child; 
The  babe  looked  up,  and  sweetly  smiled. 


"I  went  and  washed,  and  I  received  sight." — New  York 
Evkwihg  Post. 

When  the  great  Master  spoke, 

He  touched  his  withered  eyes, 
And,  at  one  gleam,  upon  him  broke 

The  glad  earth  and  the  skies. 

And  he  saw  the  city's  walls, 

And  king's  and  prophet's  tomb, 
And  arches  proud,  and  vaulted  halls, 

And  the  temple's  lofty  dome. 

He  looked  on  the  river's  flood, 

And  the  flash  of  mountain  rills, 
And  the  gentle  wave  of  the  palms,  that  stood 

Upon  Judea's  hills. 

He  saw.  on  heights  and  plains, 

Creatures  of  every  race  ; 
But  a  mighty  thrill  ran  through  his  veins 

When  he  met  the  human  face. 

And  his  virgin  sight  beheld 

The  ruddy  glow  of  even, 
And  the  thousand  shining  orbs  that  filled 

The  azure  depths  of  heaven. 

And  woman's  voice  before 

Had  cheered  his  gloomy  nigh  , 
But  to  see  the  angel  form  she  wore 

Made  deeper  the  delight. 

And  his  heart,  at  daylight's  close, 
For  the  bright  world  where  he  trod, 

And  when  the  yellow  morning  rose. 
Gave  speechless  thanks  to  God. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  233 


The  Huma* — Louisa  P.  Smith. 

Fly  on,  nor  touch  thy  wing,  bright  bird, 

Too  near  our  shaded  earth, 
Or  the  warbling,  now  so  sweetly  heard, 

May  lose  its  note  of  mirth. 
Fly  on,  nor  seek  a  place  of  rest 

In  the  home  of"  care-worn  things:" 
'Twould  dim  the  light  of  thy  shining  crest, 

And  thy  brightly  burnished  wings, 
To  dip  them  where  the  waters  glide 
That  flow  from  a  troubled  earthly  tide. 

The  fields  of  upper  air  are  thine, 

Thy  place  where  stars  shine  free ; 
I  would  thy  home,  bright  one,  were  mine, 

Above  life's  stormy  sea. 
I  would  never  wander,  bird,  like  thee, 

So  near  this  place  again ; 
With  wing  and  spirit  once  light  and  free, 

They  should  wear  no  more  the  chain 
With  which  they  are  bound  and  fettered  here, 
For  ever  struggling  for  skies  more  clear. 

There  are  many  things  like  thee,  bright  bird ; 

Hopes  as  thy  plumage  gay ; 
Our  air  is  with  them  for  ever  stirred, 

But  still  in  air  they  stay. 
And  Happiness,  like  thee,  fair  one, 

Is  ever  hovering  o'er, 
But  rests  in  a  land  of  brighter  sun, 

On  a  waveless,  peaceful  shore, 
And  stoops  to  lave  her  weary  wings, 
Where  the  fount  of  "  living  waters"  springs. 


The  Paint  King. — Washington  Allston. 

Fair  Ellen  was  long  the  delight  of  the  young; 
No  damsel  could  with  her  compare ; 

*  "  A  bird  peculiar  to  the  East.     It  is  supposed  to  fly  constantly  in  the 
air,  and  never  touch  the  ground." 

20* 


234  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Her  charms  were  the  theme  of  the  heart  and  the  tongue, 
And  bards  without  number,  in  ecstasies,  sung 
The  beauties  of  Ellen  the  fair. 

Yet  cold  was  the  maid ;  and,  though  legions  advanced, 

All  drilled  by  Ovidean  art, 
And  languished  and  ogled,  protested  and  danced, 
Like  shadows  they  came,  and  like  shadows  they  glanced 

From  the  hard,  polished  ice  of  her  heart. 

Yet  still  did  the  heart  of  fair  Ellen  implore 

A  something  that  could  not  be  found ; 
Like  a  sailor  she  seemed  on  a  desolate  shore, 
With  nor  house,  nor  a  tree,  nor  a  sound  but  the  roar 

Of  breakers  high  dashing  around. 

From  object  to  object  still,  still  would  she  veer, 

Though  nothing,  jalas  !  could  she  find  ; 
Like  the  moon,  without  atmosphere,  brilliant  and  clear, 
Yet  doomed,  like  the  moon,  with  no  being  to  cheer 
The  bright  barren  waste  of  her  mind. 

But,  rather  than  sit  like  a  statue  so  still, 

When  the  rain  made  her  mansion  a  pound, 
Up  and  down  would  she  go,  like  the  sails  of  a  mill, 
And  pat  every  stair,  like  a  woodpecker's  bill, 
From  the  tiles  of  the  roof  to  the  ground. 

One  morn,  as  the  maid  from  her  casement  inclined,    - 

Passed  a  youth  with  a  frame  in  his  hand. 

The  casement  she  closed,  not  the  eye  of  her  mind, 

For,  do  all  she  could,  no,  she  could  not  be  blind ; 

Still  before  her  she  saw  the  youth  stand. 

"  Ah,  what  can  he  do" — said  the  languishing  maid, 

"Ah,  what  with  that  frame  can  he  do  ?" 
And  she  knelt  to  the  goddess  of  secrets,  and  prayed, 
When  the  youth  passed  again,  and  again  he  displayed 
The  frame  and  a  picture  to  view. 

"  Oh,  beautiful  picture !"  the  fair  Ellen  cried, 

"  I  must  see  thee  again,  or  I  die." 
Then  under  her  white  chin  her  bonnet  she  tied, 
And  after  the  youth  and  the  picture  she  hied, 

When  the  youth,  looking  back,  met  her  eye. 


COMMON-PLACE    HOOK    OF    POETRY.  2)5 

"  Fair  damsel,"  said  he,  (and  he  chuckled  the  while,) 

"  This  picture,  I  see,  you  admire : 
Then  take  it,  I  pray  you ;  perhaps  'twill  beguile 
Some  moments  of  sorrow,  (nay,  pardon  my  smile,) 

Or,  at  least,  keep  you  home  by  the  fire." 

Then  Ellen  the  gift,  with  delight  and  surprise, 

From  the  cunning  young  stripling  received. 
But  she  knew  not  the  poison  that  entered  her  eyes, 
When,  sparkling  with  rapture,  they  gazed  on  her  prize — 
Thus,  alas,  are  fair  maidens  deceived ! 

'Twas  a  youth  o'er  the  form  of  a  statue  inclined, 

And  the  sculptor  he  seemed  of  the  stone  ; 
Yet  he  languished  as  though  for  its  beauty  he  pined, 
And  gazed  as  the  eyes  of  the  statue  so  blind 

Reflected  the  beams  of  his  own. 

'Twas  the  tale  of  the  sculptor  Pygmalion  of  old 

Fair  Ellen  remembered,  and  sighed  : 
"  Ah,  couldst  thou  but  lift  from  that  marble,  so  cold, 
Thine  eyes  too  imploring,  thy  arms  should  enfold, 

And  press  me  this  day  as  thy  bride." 

She  said :  when,  behold,  from  the  canvas  arose 
The  youth,  and  he  stepped  from  the  frame  : 
With  a  furious  transport  his  arms  did  enclose 
The  love-plighted  Ellen  ;  and,  clasping,  he  froze 
The  blood  of  the  maid  with  his  flame. 

She  turned,  and  beheld  on  each  shoulder  a  wing. 

"  0  heaven!  cried  she,  who  art  thou  ?" 
From  the  roof  to  the  ground  did  his  fierce  answer  ring, 
As,  frowning,  he  thundered, "  I  am  the  Paint- King ! 

And  mine,  lovely  maid,  thou  art  now !" 

Then  high  from  the  ground  did  the  grim  monster  lift 

The  loud-screaming  maid  like  a  blast ; 
And  he  sped  through  the  air  like  a  meteor  swift, 
While  the  clouds,  wand'ring  by  him,  did  fearfully  drift 

To  the  right  and  the  left  as  he  passed. 

Now  suddenly  sloping  his  hurricane  flight, 

With  an  eddying  whirl  he  descends  ; 
The  air  all  below  him  becomes  black  as  night, 


236  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  the  ground  where  he  treads,  as  if  moved  with  affright, 
Like  the  surge  of  the  Caspian  bends. 

"  I  am  here  !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  thundering  knocked 

At  the  gates  of  a  mountainous  cave  ; 
The  gates  open  flew,  as  by  magic  unlocked, 
While  the  peaks  of  the  mount,  reeling  to  and  fro,  rocked 

Like  an  island  of  ice  on  the  wave. 

"  0,  mercy  !"  cried  Ellen,  and  swooned  in  his  arms; 

But  the  Paint-King,  he  scoffed  at  her  pain. 
"  Prithee,  love,"  said  the  monster, "  what  mean  these  alarms  ?" 
She  hears  not,  she  sees  not  the  terrible  charms, 

That  work  her  to  horror  again. 

She  opens  her  lids,  but  no  longer  her  eyes 

Behold  the  fair  youth  she  would  woo ; 
Now  appears  the  Paint-King  in  his  natural  guise ; 
His  face,  like  a  palette  of  villanous  dies, 

Black  and  white,  red  and  yellow,  and  blue. 

On  the  skull  of  a  Titan,  that  Heaven  defied, 

Sat  the  fiend,  like  the  grim  giant  Gog,   v 
While  aloft  to  his  mouth  a  huge  pipe  he  applied, 
Twice  as  big  as  the  Eddystone  lighthouse,  descried 

As  it  looms  through  an  easterly  fog. 

And  anon,  as  he  puffed  the  vast  volumes,  were  seen, 

In  horrid  festoons  on  the  wall, 
Legs  and  aims,  heads  and  bodies  emerging  between, 
Like  the  drawing-room  grim  of  the  Scotch  Sawney  Beane, 

By  the  devil  dressed  out  for  a  ball. 

"  Ah  me !"  cried  the  damsel,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  Must  I  hang  on  these  walls  to  be  dried  ?" 
"  0,  no,"  said  the  fiend,  while  he  sprung  from  his  seat> 
"  A  far  nobler  fortune  thy  person  shall  meet ; 

Into  paint  will  I  grind  thee,  my  bride !" 

Then  seizing  the  maid  by  her  dark  auburn  hair, 

An  oil  jug  he  plunged  her  within. 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  with  the  shrieks  of  despair, 
Did  Ellen  in  torment  convulse  the  dun  air, 

All  covered  with  oil  to  the  chin. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  237 

On  the  morn  of  the  eighth,  on  a  huge  sable  stone 

Then  Ellen,  all  reeking,  he  laid ; 
With  a  rock  for  his  muller,  he  crushed  every  bone, 
But,  though  ground  to  jelly,  still,  still  did  she  groan ; 

For  life  had  forsook  not  the  maid. 

Now  reaching  his  palette,  with  masterly  care 

Each  tint  on  its  surface  he  spread ; 
The  blue  of  her  eyes,  and  the  brown  of  her  hair, 
And  the  pearl  and  the  white  of  her  forehead  so  fair, 

And  her  lips'  and  her  checks'  rosy  red. 

Then,  stamping  his  foot,  did  the  monster  exclaim, 

"  Now  I  brave,  cruel  fairy,  thy  scorn!" 
When,  lo !  from  a  chasm  wide-yawning  there  came 
A  light  tiny  chariot  of  rose-colored  flame, 

By  a  team  often  glow-worms  upborne. 

Enthroned  in  the  midst  on  an  emerald  bright, 

Fair  Geraldine  sat  without  peer ; 
Her  robe  was  a  gleam  of  the  first  blush  of  light, 
And  her  mantle  the  fleece  of  a  noon-cloud  white, 

And  a  beam  of  the  moon  was  her  spear. 

In  an  accent  that  stole  on  the  still  charmed  air 

Like  the  first  gentle  language  of  Eve, 
Thus  spake  from  her  chariot  the  fairy  so  fair : 
"  I  come  at  thy  call,  but,  0  Paint-King,  beware, 

Beware  if  again  you  deceive." 

"  'Tis  true,"  said  the  monster,  "  thou  queen  of  my  heart, 

Thy  portrait  I  oft  have  essayed ; 
Yet  ne'er  to  the  canvas  could  I  with  my  art 
The  least  of  thy  wonderful  beauties  impart  ; 

And  my  failure  with  scorn  you  repaid. 

"  Now  I  swear  by  the  light  of  the  Comet-King's  tail," — 
And  he  towered  with  pride  as  he  spoke, — 

"  If  again  with  these  magical  colors  I  fail, 

The  crater  of  Etna  shall  hence  be  my  jail, 
And  my  food  shall  be  sulphur  and  smoke. 

"  But  if  I  succeed,  then,  0  fair  Geraldine, 

Thy  promise  with  justice  I  claim, 
And  thou,  queen  of  fairies,  shalt  ever  be  mine, 


238  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  bride  of  my  bed  ;  and  thy  portrait  divine 
Shall  fill  all  the  earth  with  my  fame." 

He  spake ;  when,  behold,  the  fair  Geraldine's  form 
On  the  canvas  enchantingly  glowed ; 

His  touches,  they  flew  like  the  leaves  in  a  storm ; 

And  the  pure  pearly  white,  and  the  carnation  warm, 
Contending  in  harmony,  flowed. 

And  now  did  the  portrait  a  twin- sister  seem 

To  the  figure  of  Geraldine  fair : 
With  the  same  sweet  expression  did  faithfully  teem 
Each  muscle,  each  feature  ;  in  short,  not  a  gleam 

Was  lost  of  her  beautiful  hair. 

'Twas  the  fairy  herself !  but,  alas,  her  blue  eyes 

Still  a  pupil  did  ruefully  lack ; 
And  who  shall  describe -the  terrific  surprise 
That  seized  the  Paint-King"  when,  behold,  he  descries 

Not  a  speck  of  his  palette  of  black ! 

w  I  am  lost!"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  shook  like  a  leaf; 

When,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  ground, 
He  saw  the  lost  pupils  of  Ellen  with  grief 
In  the  jaws  of  a  mouse,  and  the  sly  little  thief 

Whisk  away  from  his  sight  with  a  bound. 

"  I  am  lost !"  said  the  fiend,  and  he  fell  like  a  stone  ; 

Then,  rising,  the  fairy,  in  ire, 
With  a  touch  of  her  finger,  she  loosened  her  zone, 
(While  the  limbs  on  the  wall  gave  a  terrible  groan,) 

And  she  swelled  to  a  column  of  fire 

Her  spear  now  a  thunder-bolt  flashed  in  the  air, 

And  sulphur  the  vault  filled  around  ; 
She  smote  the  grim  monster  :  and  now,  by  the  hair 
High-lifting,  she  hurled  him,  in  speechless  despair, 
Down  the  depths  of  the  chasm  profound. 

Then  over  the  picture  thrice  waving  her  spear, 

**  Come  forth  !"  said  the  good  Geraldine ; 
When,  behold,  from  the  canvas  descending,  appear 
Fair  Ellen,  in  person  more  lovely  than  e'er, 
With  grace  more  than  ever  divine  ! 


COMMON-PLACE    ROOK    OF    POETRY.  239 


The  murdered  Traveller. — Bryant. 

When  Spring,  to  woods  and  wistes  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again, 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were  found, 

Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch,  above  him,  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky  ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded,  careless,  by. 

The  red-bird  warbled,  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And,  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 

Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away, 

And  gentle  eyes,  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Grew  sorrowful  and  dim. 

They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so, 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  hard  beset ; 

Nor  how,  when,  round  the  frosty  pole, 

The  northern  dawn  was  red, 
The  mountain  wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead  ; 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept, 

Within  his  distant  home  ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

So  long  they  looked — but  never  spied 

His  welcome  step  again, 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


240  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake. — F.  G.  Halleck 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven,  : 

Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 

To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke' each  morrow 

To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 

Whose  weal  and  wo  were  thine, — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow  ; 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 

Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 
The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 

That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 


To  H . — Christian  Examiner. 

Sweet  child,  that  wasted  form, 

That  pale  and  mournful  brow, 
O'er  which  thy  long,  dark  tresses 

In  shadowy  beauty  flow — 
That  eye,  whence  soul  is  darting 

With  such  strange  brilliancy, 
Tell  us  thou  art  departing — 

This  world  is  not  for  thee. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  241 

No !  not  for  thee  is  woven 

That  wreath  of  joy  and  wo, 
That  crown  of  thorns  and  flowers, 

Which  all  must  wear  below  ! 
We  bend  in  anguish  o'er  thee, 

Yet  feel  that  thou  art  blessed, 
Loved  one,  so  early  summoned 

To  enter  into  rest. 

Soon  shall  thy  bright  young  spirit 

From  earth's  cold  chains  be  free  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  meet  that  Savior, 

Who  gave  himself  for  thee. 
Soon  shalt  thou  be  rejoicing, 

Unsullied  as  thou  art, 
In  the  blessed  vision  promised 

Unto  the  pure  in  heart. 

Yes,  thou  art  going  home, 

Our  Father's  face  to  see, 
In  perfect  bliss  and  glory ; 

But  we,  0,  where  are  we  ? 
While  that  celestial  country 

Thick  clouds  and  darkness  hide, 
In  a  strange  land  of  exile, 

Still,  still  must  we  abide. 

0  Father  of  our  spirits, 

We  can  but  look  to  thee  ; 
Though  chastened,  not  forsaken, 

Shall  we  thy  children  be. 
We  take  the  cup  of  sorrow, 

As  did  thy  blessed  Son — 
Teach  us  to  say,  with  Jesus, 

"  'Thy  will,  not  ours,  be  done  !" 


The  dying  Raven. — Richard  H.  Dana. 

Come  to  these  lonely  woods  to  die  alone  ? 
It  seems  not  many  days  since  thou  wast  heard, 
From  out  the  mists  of  spring,  with  thy  shrill  note, 
Calling  unto  thy  mates — and  their  clear  answers. 
The  earth  was  brown,  then ;  and  the  infant  leaves 
21 


242  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Had  not  put  forth  to  warm  them  in  the  sun, 

Or  play  in  the  fresh  air  of  heaven.     Thy  voice, 

Shouting  in  triumph,  told  of  winter  gone, 

And  prophesying  life  to  the  sealed  ground, 

Did  make  me  glad  with  thoughts  of  coming  beauties. 

And  now  they're  all  around  us; — offspring  bright 

Of  earth, — a  mother,  who,  with  constant  care, 

Doth  feed  and  clothe  them  all. — Now  o'er  her  fields, 

In  blessed  bands,  or  single,  they  are  gone, 

Or  by  her  brooks  they  stand,  and  sip  the  stream ; 

Or  peering  o'er  it — vanity  well  feigned— 

In  quaint  approval  seem  to  glow  and  nod 

At  their  reflected  graces. — Morn  to  meet, 

They  in  fantastic  labors  pass  the  night, 

Catching  its  dews,  and  rounding  silvery  drops 

To  deck  their  bosoms. — There,  on  tall,  bald  trees, 

From  varnished  cells  some  peep,  and  the  oM  boughs 

Make  to  rejoice  and  dance  in  the  unseen  winds. 

Over  my  head  the  winds  and  they  make  music; 

And,  grateful,  in  return  for  what  they  take, 

Bright  hues  and  odors  to  the  air  they  give. 

Thus  mutual  love  brings  mutual  delight — 
Brings  beauty,  life  ; — for  love  is  life ; — hate>  death. 

Thou  prophet  of  so  fair  a  revelation, — 
Thou  who  abod'st  with  us  the  winter  long, 
Enduring  cold  or  rain,  and  shaking  oft, 
From  thy  dark  mantle,  falling  sleet  or  snow, — 
Thou,  who  with  purpose  kind,  when  warmer  days 
Shone  on  the  earth,  midst  thaw  and  steam,  cam'st  forth 
From  rocky  nook,  or  wood,  thy  priestly  cell, 
To  speak  of  comfort  unto  lonely  man, — 
Didst  say  to  him, — though  seemingly  alone 
'Midst  wastes  and  snows,  and  silent,  lifeless  trees, 
Or  the  more  silent  ground, — that  'twas  not  death, 
But  nature's   sleep  and  rest,  her  kind  repair; — 
That  thou,  albeit  unseen,  did'st  bear  with  him 
The  winter's  night,  and,  patient  of  the  day, 
And  cheered  by  hope,  (instinct  divine  in  thee,) 
Waitedst  return  of  summer. 

More  thou  saidst, 
Thou  priest  of  nature,  priest  of  God,  to  man  ! 
Thou  spok'st  of  faith,  (than  instinct  no  less  sure,) 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  243 

Of  spirits  near  him,  though  he  saw  them  not : 

Thou  bad'st  him  ope  his  intellectual  eye, 

And  see  his  solitude  all  populous : 

Thou  showd'st  him  Paradise,  and  deathless  flowers; 

And  didst  him  pray  to  listen  to  the  flow 

Of  living  waters. 

Preacher  to  man's  spirit  ! 
Emblem  of  Hope  !     Companion  !     Comforter ! 
Thou  faithful  one  !  is  this  thine  end  ?     'Twas  thou, 
When  summer  birds  were  gone,  and  no  form  seen 
In  the  void  air,  who  cam'st,  living  and  strong, 
On  thy  broad,  balanced  pennons,  through  the  winds. 
And  of  thy  long  enduring,  this  the  close  ! 
Thy  kingly  strength  brought  down,  of  storms 
Thou  conqueror ! 

The  year's  mild,  cheering  dawn 
Upon  thee  shone  a  momentary  light. 
The  gales  of  spring  upbore  thee  for  a  day, 
And  then  forsook  thee.     Thou  art  fallen  now  ; 
And  liest  amongst  thy  hopes  and  promises — 
Beautiful  flowers,  and  freshly-springing  blades — 
Gasping  thy  life  out. — Here  for  thee  the  grass 
Tenderly  makes  a  bed  ;  and  the  young  buds 
In  silence  open  their  fair,  painted  folds — 
To  ease  thy  pain,  the  one — to  cheer  thee,  these. 
But  thou  art  restless  ;  and  thy  once  keen  eye 
Is  dull  and  sightless  now.     New  blooming  boughs, 
Needlessly  kind,  have  spread  a  tent  for  thee. 
Thy  mate  is  calling  to  the  white,  piled  clouds, 
And  asks  for  thee.     No  answer  give  they  back. 
As  I  look  up  to  their  bright,  angel  faces, 
Intelligent  and  capable  of  voice 
They  seem  to  me.     Their  silence  to  my  soul 
Comes  ominous.     The  same  to  thee,  doomed  bird, 
Silence  or  sound.     For  thee  there  is  no  sound, 
No  silence. — Near  thee  stands  the  shadow,  Death  ; — 
And  now  he  slowly  draws  his  sable  veil 
Over  thine  eyes.     Thy  senses  soft  he  lulls 
Into  unconscious  slumbers.     The  airy  call 
Thou'lt  hear  no  longer.     'Neath  sun-lighted  clouds, 
With  beating  wing,  or  steady  poise  aslant, 
Thou'lt  sail  no  more.     Around  thy  trembling  claws 


244  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Droop  thy  wings'  parting  feathers.     Spasms  of  death 
Are  on  thee. 

Laid  thus  low  by  age  ?     Or  is't 
All-grudging  man  has  brought  thee  to  this  end  ? 
Perhaps  the  slender  hair,  so  subtly  wound 
Around  the  grain  God  gives  thee  for  thy  food. 
Has  proved  thy  snare,  and  makes  thine  inward  pain. 

I  needs  must  mourn  for  thee.     For  I — who  have 
No  fields,  nor  gather  into  garners — I 
Bear  thee  both  thanks  and  love,  not  fear  nor  hate. 

And  now,  farewell !     The  falling  leaves,  ere  long, 
Will  give  thee  decent  covering.     Till  then, 
Thine  own  black  plumage,  which  will  now  no  more 
Glance  to  the  sun,  nor  flash  upon  my  eyes, 
Like  armor  of  steeled  knight  of  Palestine, 
Must  be  thy  pall.     Nor  will  it  moult  so  soon 
As  sorrowing  thoughts  on  those  borne  from  him  fade 
In  living  man. 

Who  scoffs  these  sympathies 
-    Makes  mock  of  the  divinity  within  ; 

Nor  feels  he,  gently  breathing  through  his  soul, 

The  universal  spirit. — Hear  it  cry, 

u  How  does  thy  pride  abase  thee,  man,  vain  man  ! 

How  deaden  thee  to  universal  love, 

And  joy  of  kindred,  with  all  humble  things — 

God's  creatures  all  !" 

And  surely  it  is  so. 
He  who  the  lily  clothes  in  simple  glory. 
He  who  doth  hear  the  ravens  cry  for  food, 
Hath  on  our  hearts,  with  hand  invisible, 
In  signs  mysterious,  written  what  alone 
Our  hearts  may  read. — Death  bring  thee  rest,  poor  bird. 


After  a  Tempest. — Bryant. 

The  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm  ; — 
The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpassed, 


COMMON-rLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  245 

And,  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm, 
Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 
I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 

My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 

Where  the  va*t  plain  lay  uirt  by  mountains  vast, 

And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 

With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out,  and  villages  between. 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 

Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 

Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird ; 

For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 
About  the  flowers ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 

And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward ; 
To  the  gray  oak,  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And,  chirping,  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper  upsprung. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves,  that  kept  them  dry, 

Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 

That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 

The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them ;  in  the  way 

Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair ; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay, 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 

Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 
Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  cell, 

And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 

And  glassy  river,  and  white  waterfall, 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 

And  beauteous  scene  ;  while,  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft,  golden  light. 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 

An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 
When  o'er  earth's  continents,  and  isles  between, 

The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony ; 
When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 

No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 
21* 


246  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 

The  o'erlabored  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were  done. 

Too  long  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers, 
And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast, 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm  ;  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis  past ; 

Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky, 

On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven  shall  lie. 


A  Winter  Scene. — Idle  Man. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes ; — he  boasts 
Splendors  beyond  what  gorgeous  Summer  knows, 
Or  Autumn,  with  his  many  fruits  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come,  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice. 
When  the  slant  sun  of  February,  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood' of  light.     Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad,  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.     Look,  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  branch  and  twig 
Shine  in  the  lucid  covering ;  each  light  rod, 
Nodding  and  twinkling  in  the  stirring  breeze, 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
Still  streaming,  as  they  move,  with  colored  light. 
But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long,  low  boughs 
Bend  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The  glassy  floor.     O !  you  might  deem  the  spot 
The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 
Deep  in  the  womb  of  Earth,  where  the  gems  grow, 
And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods,  and  bud 
With  amethyst  and  topaz,  and  the  place 
Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 
That  dwells  in  them ;  or,  haply,  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 
And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun ; 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 
And  crossing  arches,  and  fantastic  aisles 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  247 

Wind  from  the  ^ii^lit  in  brightness,  ami  are  lost 
Among  the  crowded  pillars.     Raise  thine  eye  : — 
Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault; 
There  the  hlue  sky,  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.     Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  sporting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air, 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.     All,  all  is  light, 
Light  without  shade.     But  all  shall  pass  away 
With  the  next  sun.     From  numberless  vast  trunks, 
Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 
Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers ;  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont. 


Description  of  the  Quiet  Island,  From  the  Poem  of(iTJie 
Buccaneer." — Richard  H.  Dana. 

The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore, 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 
No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 
Save  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea, 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 
Sits  swinging  silently, 
How  beautiful  !  No  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side  ; 
From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 
Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sound  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  amongst  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell,  nor  pastoral  bleat, 

In  former  days  within  the  vale  ; 
Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet ; 

Curses  were  on  the  gale  ; 


248  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace, 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear ; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 
Subdued  and  holy  fear  : 
Each  motion's  gentle  ;  all  is  kindly  done — 
Come,  listen,  how  from  crime  this  isle  was  won. 


The  religious  Cottage. — D.  (Ivntington. 

Seest  thou  yon  lonely  cottage  in  the  grove, 

With  little  garden  neatly  planned  before,    . 
Its  roof  deep  shaded  by  the  elms  above, 

Moss-grown,  and  decked  with  velvet  verdure  o'er  ? 

Go  lift  the  willing  latch — the  scene  explore — 
Sweet  peace,  and  love,  and  joy,  thou  there  shalt  find  ; 

For  there  Religion  dwells  ;  whose  sacred  lore 
Leaves  the  proud  wisdom  of  the  world  behind, 
And  pours  a  heavenly  ray  on  every  humble  mind. 

When  the  bright  morning  gilds  the  eastern  skies, 
Up  springs  the  peasant  from  his  calm  repose  ; 

Forth  to  his  honest  toil  he  cheerful  hies, 

And  tastes  the  sweets  of  nature  as  he  goes — 
But  first,  of  Sharon's  fairest,  sweetest  rose, 

He  breathes  the  fragrance,  and  pours  forth  the  praise; 
Looks  to  the  source  whence  every  blessing  flows, 

Ponders  the  page  which  heavenly  truth  conveys, 
And  to  its  Author's  hand  commits  his  future  ways. 

Nor  yet  in  solitude  his  prayers  ascend  ; 

His  faithful  partner  and  their  blooming  train, 
The  precious  word,  with  reverent  minds,  attend, 

The  heaven-directed  path  of  life  to  gain. 

Their  voices  mingle  in  the  grateful  strain — 
The  lay  of  love  and  joy  together  sing, 

To  Him  whose  bounty  clothes  the  smiling  plain, 
Who  spreads  the  beauties  of  the  blooming  spring, 
And  tunes  the  warbling  throats  that  make  the  valleys  ring. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OP    POETRY.  249 


The  two  Homes. — Anonymous. 

Seest  thou  my  home  ?     'Tis  where  yon  woods  are  waving, 

In  their  dark  richness,  to  the  sunny  air ; 
Where  yon  blue  stream,  a  thousand  flower-banks  laving, 

Leads  down  the  hill  a  vein  of  light — 'tis  there. 

'Mid  these  green  haunts  how  many  a  spring  lies  gleaming, 
Fringed  with  the  violet,  colored  by  the  skies ! — 

My  boyhood's  haunts,  through  days  of  summer,  dreaming, 
Under  young  leaves  that  shook  with  melodies. 

My  home — the  spirit  of  its  love  is  breathing 

In  every  wind  that  plays  across  my  track ; 
From  its  white  walls,  the  very  tendrils,  wreathing, 

Seem,  with  soft  links,  to  draw  the  wanderer  back. 

There  am  I  loved  !  There  prayed  for  !  There  my  mother 
Sits  by  the  hearth  with  meekly  thoughtful  eye ! 

There  my  young  sisters  watch  to  greet  their  brother — 
Soon  their  glad  footsteps  down  the  path  would  fly ! 

There,  in  sweet  strains  of  kindred  music  blending, 
All  the  home  voices  meet  at  day's  decline  ; 

One  are  those  tones,  as  from  one  heart  ascending — 

There  laughs  my  home — Sad  stranger,  where  is  thine  ? 

Ask  thou  of  mine?     In  solemn  peace  'tis  lying, 

Far  o'er  the  deserts  and  the  tombs  away ; 
'Tis  where  I,  too,  am  loved  with  love  undying, 

And  fond  hearts  wait  my  step.     But  where  are  they  ? 

Ask  where  the  earth's  departed  have  their  dwelling, 
Ask  of  the  clouds,  the  stars,  the  trackless  air; 

I  know  it  not,  yet  trust  the  whisper  telling 
My  lonely  heart,  that  love  unchanged  is  there. 

And  what  is  home  ?  and  where  but  with  the  living  ? 

Happy  thou  art,  and  so  canst  gaze  on  thine  : 
My  spirit  feels,  but  in  its  weary  roving, 

That  with  the  dead — where'er  they  be — is  mine. 

Go  to  thy  home,  rejoicing  son  and  brother; 

Bear  in  fresh  gladness  to  the  household  scene  : 
For  me,  too,  watch  the  sister  and  the  mother, 

I  will  believe — but  dark  seas  roll  between. 


250  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


To  a  Sister. — Edward  Everett. 

Yes,  dear  one,  to  the  envied  train 

Of  those  around  thy  homage  pay  ; 
But  wilt  thou  never  kindly  deign 

To  think  of  him  that's  far  away  ? 
Thy  form,  thine  eye,  thine  angel  smile, 

For  many  years  I  may  not  see  ; 
But  wilt  thou  not  sometimes  the  while, 

My  sister  dear,  remember  me  ? 

But  not  in  Fashion's  brilliant  hall, 

Surrounded  by  the  gay  and  fair, 
And  thou  the  fairest  of  them  all, — 

O,  think  not,  think  not  of  me  there. 
But  when  the  thoughtless  crowd  is  gone, 

And  hushed  the  voice  of  senseless  glee, 
And  all  is  silent, "still  and  lone, 

And  thou  art  sad,  remember  me. 

Remember  me — but,  loveliest,  ne?er, 

When,  in  his  orbit,  fair  and  high, 
The  morning's  glowing  charioteer 

Rides  proudly  up  the  blushing  sky ; 
But  when  the  waning  moon-beam  sleeps 

At  moon-light  on  that  lonely  lea, 
And  nature's  pensive  spirit  weeps 

In  all  her  dews,  remember  me. 

Remember  me,  I  pray — but  not 

In  Flora's  gay  and  blooming  hour, 
When  every  brake  hath  found  its  note, 

And  sunshine  smiles  in  every  flower ; 
But  when  the  falling  leaf  is  sear, 

And  withers  sadly  from  the  tree, 
And  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  year 

Cold  Autumn  weeps,  remember  me. 

Remember  me — but  choose  not,  dear, 
The  hour  when,  on  the  gentle  lake, 

The  sportive  wavelets,  blue  and  clear, 
Soft  rippling,  to  the  margin  break ; 

But  when  the  deaf  ning  billows  foam 
In  madness  o'er  the  pathless  sea, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  251 

Then  let  thy  pilgrim  fancy  roam 
Across  them,  and  remember  me. 

Remember  me — but  not  to  join 

If  haply  some  thy  friends  should  praise  ; 
'Tis  far  too  dear,  that  voice  of  thine 

To  echo  what  the  stranger  says. 
They  know  us  not — but  shouldst  thou  meet 

Some  faithful  friend  of  me  and  thee, 
Softly,  sometimes,  to  him  repeat 

My  name,  and  then  remember  me. 

Remember  me — not,  I  entreat, 

In  scenes  of  festal  week-day  joy, 
For  then  it  were  not  kind  or  meet, 

Thy  thought  thy  pleasure  should  alloy ; 
But  on  the  sacred,  solemn  day, 

And,  dearest,  on  thy  bended  knee, 
When  thou  for  those  thou  lov'st  dost  pray, 

Sweet  spirit,  then  remember  me, 

Remember  me — but  not  as  I 

On  thee  forever,  ever  dwell, 
With  anxious  heart  and  drooping  eye, 

And  doubts  'twould  grieve  thee  should  I  tell ; 
But  in  thy  calm,  unclouded  heart, 

Where  dark  and  gloomy  visions  flee, 
Oh  there,  my  sister,  be  my  part, 

And  kindly  there  remember  me. 


To  the  Moon. — Walsh's  National  Gazette 


When  the  gross  cares  of  daylight  end, 

And  selfish  passions  cease  to  be, 
How  will  the  exulting  thought  ascend 

Bright  mystery,  to  thee  ! 

Distant  and  calm,  the  spirit  land, 

To  which  is  breathed  hope's  fondest  prayer  ; 
Where  seraph's  wings  their  hues  expand, 

And  harpings  charm  the  air. 


252  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

O,  glorious  is  the  rising  sun, 
Pavilioned  in  his  blushing  glow, 

When  fairy  winds  have  just  begun 
To  wake  the  flowers  below  ; 

Or  shrined  amid  the  western  gold, 
While  evening's  balmy  odors  rise, 

And  fancy  can  almost  behold 
The  elysium  of  the  skies. 

Yet  far  surpassing  the  bright  dawn 
Of  purple  sunset  is  thy  power ; 

For  death's  dim  veil  is  half  withdrawn 
At  thy  presiding  hour. 

Affection  seeks,  in  thy  calm  sphere, 
The  soul  beyond  life's  stormy  sea; 

And  minds  too  pure  to  sorrow  here, 
Fair  planet^dwell  with  thee. 

The  bright  stars  shine  around  the  throne, 
The  lonely  ocean  greets  thy  ray ; 

Air,  sea,  and  earth, — all  seem  to  own 
Thy  spiritual  sway. 


My  native  Land — My  native  Place, — Anonymous. 

My  thoughts  are  in  my  native  land, 

My  heart  is  in  my  native  place, 
Where  willows  bend  to  breezes  bland, 

And  kiss  the  river's  rippling  face ; 

Where  sunny  shrubs  disperse  their  scent, 
And  raise  their  blossoms  high  to  heaven, 

As  if  in  calm  acknowledgment 
For  brilliant  hues  and  virtues  given. 

My  thoughts  are  with  my  youthful  days, 
Where  sin  and  grief  were  but  a  name  ; 

When  every  field  had  golden  ways, 
And  pleasure  with  the  day-light  came. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  253 

I  bent  the  rushes  to  my  feet, 

And  sought  the  water's  silent  flow, 
1  moved  along  the  thin  ice  fleet, 

Nor  thought  upon  the  death  below. 

I  culled  the  violet  in  the  dell, 

Whose  wild-rose  gave  a  chequered  shade, 
And  listened  to  each  village  bell, 

So  sweet  by  answering  echo  made. 

In  God's  own  house,  on  God's  own  day, 

In  neat  attire,  I  bent  the  knee  ; 
Pure  sense  of  duty  made  me  pray — 

Joy  made  me  join  the  melody. 

Thus  Memory,  from  her  treasured  urn, 
Shakes  o'er  the  mind  her  spring  like  rain  : 

Thus  scenes  turn  up  and  palely  burn, 
Like  night-lights  in  the  ocean's  train. 

And  still  my  soul  shall  these  command, 

While  sorrow  writes  upon  my  face  ; 
My  thoughts  are  on  my  native  land, 

My  heart  is  in  my  native  place. 


"Awake,  Psaltery  and  Harp  ;  I  myself  will  awake  early" 
Psalms. — Anonymous, 


Wake,  when  the  mists  of  the  blue  mountains  sleeping, 
Like  crowns  of  glory,  in  the  distance  lie  ; — 

When  breathing  from  the  south,  o'er  young  buds  sweeping, 
The  gale  bears  music  through  the  sunny  sky  ;— 

While  lake  and  meadow,  upland,  grove  and  stream, 

Rise  like  the  glory  of  an  Eden  dream. 

Wake  while  unfettered  thoughts,  like  treasures  springing, 
Bid  the  heart  leap  within  its  prison-cell ; — 

As  birds  and  brooks  through  the  pure  air  are  flinging 
The  mellow  chant  of  their  beguiling  spell ; — 

When  earliest  winds  their  anthems  have  begun, 

And,  incense-laden,  their  sweet  journeys  run 
22 


254  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Then,  Psaltery,  and  Harp,  a  tone  awaken, 

Whereto  the  echoing  bosom  shall  reply, 
As  earth's  rich  scenes,  by  shadowy  night  forsaken, 

Unfold  their  beauty  to  the  filling  eye  ; — 
When,  like  the  restless  breeze,  or  wild-bird's  lay, 
Pure  thoughts,  on  dove-like  pinions,  float  away. 

Wake  then,  too,  man,  when,  from  refreshing  slumber, 
And  thy  luxurious  couch,  thou  dost  arise, 

Thanks  for  life's  golden  gifts — a  countless  number — 
Calm  dreams,  and  soaring  hopes,  and  summer  skies; 

Wake  ! — let  thy  heart's  fine  chords  be  touched  in  praise, 

For  the  free  spirit  of  undying  Grace  ! 


Isaiah  xxxv. — Brainard. 

A  rose  shall  bloom  in  the  lonely  place, 
A  wild  shall  echo  with  sounds  of  joy, 

For  heaven's  own  gladness  its  bounds  shall  grace, 
And  forms  angelic  their  songs  employ. 

And  Lebanon's  cedars  shall  rustle  their  boughs, 
And  fan  their  leaves  in  the  scented  air ; 

And  Carmel  and  Sharon  shall  pay  their  vows, 
And  shout,  for  the  glory  of  God  is  there. 

O  say  to  the  fearful,  Be  strong  of  heart ; 

He  comes  in  vengeance,  but  not  for  thee  ;    - 
For  thee  He  comes,  his  might  to  impart 

To  the  trembling  hand  and  the  feeble  knee. 

The  blind  shall  see,  the  deaf  shall  hear, 
The  dumb  shall  raise  their  notes  for  Him, 

The  lame  shall  leap  like  the  unharmed  deer, 
And  the  thirsty  shall  drink  of  the  holy  stream. 

And  the  parched  ground  shall  become  a  pool, 
And  the  thirsty  land  a  dew- washed  mead  ; 

And  where  the  wildest  beasts  held  rule, 
The  harmless  of  His  fold  shall  feed. 

There  is  a  way,  and  a  holy  way, 

Where  the  unclean  foot  shall  never  tread, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    O*     rOETKY. 

But  from  it  the  lowly  shall  not  stray, 
To  it  the  penitent  shall  be  led. 

No  lion  shall  rouse  him  from  his  lair, 
Nor  wild  beast  raven  in  foaming  rage ; 

But  the  redeemed  of  the  earth  shall  there 
Pusue  their  peaceful  pilgrimage. 

The  ransomed  of  God  shall  return  to  him 
With  a  chorus  of  joy  to  an  angel's  lay ; 

With  a  tear  of  grief  shall  no  eye  be  dim, 
For  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  flee  away. 


On  listening  to  a  Cricket. — Andrews  Norton. 

I  love,  thou  little  chirping  thing, 

To  hear  thy  melancholy  noise  ; 
Though  thou  to  Fancy's  ear  may  sing 

Of  summer  past  and  fading  joys. 

Thou  canst  not  now  drink  dew  from  flowers, 

Nor  sport  along  the  traveller's  path, 
But,  through  the  winter's  weary  hours, 

Shall  warm  thee  at  my  lonely  hearth. 

And  when  my  lamp's  decaying  beam 

But  dimly  shows  the  lettered  page, 
Rich  with  some  ancient  poet's  dream, 

Or  wisdom  of  a  purer  age, — 

Then  will  I  listen  to  thy  sound, 

And,  musing  o'er  the  embers  pale, 
With  whitening;  ashes  strewed  around, 

The  forms  of  memory  unveil ; 

Recall  the  many  colored  dreams, 

That  Fancy  fondly  weaves  for  youth, 

When  all  the  bright  illusion  seems 
The  pictured  promises  of  truth  ; 

Perchance,  observe  the  fitful  light, 
And  its  faint  flashes  round  the  room, 


25G  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  think  some  pleasures,  feebly  bright, 
May  lighten  thus  life's  varied  gloom. 

I  love  the  quiet  midnight  hour, 

When  Care,  and  Hope,  and  Passion  sleep, 
And  Reason,  with  untroubled  power, 

Can  her  late  vigils  duly  keep  ; — 

I  love  the  night :  and  sooth  to  say, 
Before  the  merry  birds,  that  sing 

In  all  the  glare  and  noise  of  day, 
Prefer  the  cricket's  grating  wing. 

But,  see  !  pale  Autumn  strews  her  leaves, 
Her  withered  leaves,  o'er  Nature's  grave, 

While  giant  Winter  she  perceives, 
Dark  rushing  from  his  icy  cave  ; 

And  in  his  train  the-sleety  showers, 
That  beat  upon  the  barren  earth  ; 

Thou,  cricket,  through  these  weary  hours, 
Shalt  warm  thee  at  my  lonely  hearth. 


March. — Bryant. 

The  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 
That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah  !  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild,  stormy  month,  in  praise  of  thee ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou  to  northern  lands  again, 
The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train, 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  257 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free, 
That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 

Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 

Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat ; 
But  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 

A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 

And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 
When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 

Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


April. — Longfellow. 

When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'Tis  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 
When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-in  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives  : 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly-warbled  song 
Comes  through  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Are  glancing  in  the  golden  sun,  along 

The  forest  openings. 

And  when  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
22* 


258  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills, 
And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  day  is  gone, 
In  the  blue  lake,  the  sky,  o'erreaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 
Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April,  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed  ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


May. — J.  G.  Percival. 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds,  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  till  the  sail, 
Tell  of  serener  hours, — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south- wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 
Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 
A  canopy  of  leaves  ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May  ; 
The  tresses  of  the  woods 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  259 

With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west- wind  play  ; 
And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


Mounds  on  the  Western  Rivers. — M.  Flint. 

The  sun's  last  rays  were  fading  from  the  west, 
The  deepening  shade  stole  slowly  o'er  the  plain, 

The  evening  breeze  had  lulled  itself  to  rest, 
And  all  was  silence, — save  the  mournful  strain 
With  which  the  widowed  turtle  wooed,  in  vain, 

Her  absent  lover  to  her  lonely  nest. 

Now,  one  by  one,  emerging  to  the  sight, 

The  brighter  stars  assumed  their  seats  on  high  ; 

The  moon's  pale  crescent  glowed  serenely  bright, 
As  the  last  twilight  fled  along  the  sky, 
And  all  her  train,  in  cloudless  majesty, 

Were  glittering  on  the  dark  blue  vault  of  night. 

I  lingered,  by  some  soft  enchantment  bound, 
And  gazed,  enraptured,  on  the  lovely  scene ; 

From  the  dark  summit  of  an  Indian  mound 
I  saw  the  plain,  outspread  in  living  green ; 
Its  fringe  of  cliffs  was  in  the  distance  seen, 

And  the  dark  line  of  forest  sweeping  round. 

I  saw  the  lesser  mounds  which  round  me  rose ; 

Each  was  a  giant  heap  of  mouldering  clay ; 
There  slept  the  warriors,  women,  friends,  and  foes, 

There,  side  by  side,  the  rival  chieftains  lay ; 

And  mighty  tribes,  swept  from  the  face  of  day, 
Forgot  their  wars,  and  found  a  long  repose. 

Ye  mouldering  relics  of  departed  years, 

Your  names  have  perished  ;  not  a  trace  remains, 

Save  where  the  grass-grown  mound  its  summit  rears 
From  the  green  bosom  of  your  native  plains. 
Say,  do  your  spirits  wear  Oblivion's  chains  ? 

Did  Death  forever  quench  your  hopes  and  fears  ? 


260  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Or  did  those  fairy  hopes  of  future  bliss, 

Which  simple  Nature  to  your  bosoms  gave, 

Find  other  worlds,  with  fairer  skies  than  this, 
Beyond  the  gloomy  portals  of  the  grave, 
In  whose  bright  climes  the  virtuous  and  the  brave 

Rest  from  their  toils,  and  all  their  cares  dismiss  ? — 

Where  the  great  hunter  stills  pursues  the  chase, 
And,  o'er  the  sunny  mountains,  tracks  the  deer ; 

Or  where  he  finds  each  long-extinguished  race, 
And  sees,  onee  more,  the  mighty  mammoth  rear 
The  giant  form  which  lies  embedded  here, 

Of  other  years  the  sole  remaining  trace. 

Or,  it  may  be,  that  still  ye  linger  near 

The  sleeping  ashes,  once  your  dearest  pride  ; 

And,  could  your  forms  to  mortal  eye  appear, 
Or  the  dark  veil  of_death  be  thrown  aside, 
Then  might  I  see  your  restless  shadows  glide, 

With  watchful  care,  around  these  relics  dear. 

If  so,  forgive  the  rude,  unhallowed  feet 

Which  trod  so  thoughtless  o'er  your  mighty  dead. 

I  would  not  thus  profane  their  lone  retreat, 

Nor  trample  where  the  sleeping  warrior's  head 
Lay  pillowed  on  his  everlasting  bed, 

Age  after  age,  still  sunk  in  slumbers  sweet. 

Farewell !  and  may  you  still  in  peace  repose  ; 
Still  o'er  you  may  the  flowers,  untrodden,  bloom, 

And  softly  wave  to  every  breeze  that  blows, 
Casting  their  fragrance  on  each  lonely  tomb, 
In  which  your  tribes  sleep  in  earth's  common  womb, 

And  mingle  with  the  clay  from  which  they  rose. 


Burial  of  the  Minnisink. — Longfellow. 

On  6unny  slope  and  beechen  swell 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 
And  when  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  golden  leaves. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  261 

Far  upward,  in  the  mellow  light, 

Rose  the  blue  hills — one  cloud  of  white  ; 

Around,  a  far  uplifted  cone 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone — 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes 

By  which  the  Indian  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard, 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart  and  strong  in  hand 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sung,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds,  the  weapons  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war  were  laid ; 
The  cuirass  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless, 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed ; 


262  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart : — One  piercing  neigh 
Arose — and  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again.* 


To  the  Eagle. — Percival. 
From  the  Atlantic  Souvenir  for  1827. 


Bird  of  the  broad  and  sweeping  wing, 

Thy  home  is  high  in  heaven, 
Where  wide  the  storms  their  banners  fling, 

And  the  tempest  clouds  are  driven. 
Thy  throne  is  on  the  mountain  top  ; 

Thy  fields,  the  boundless  air ; 
And  hoary  peaks,  that  proudly  prop 

The  skies,  thy  dwellings  are. 

Thou  sittest  like  a  thing  of  light, 

Amid  the  noontide  blaze  : 
The  midway  sun  is  clear  and  bright ; 

It  cannot  dim  thy  gaze. 
Thy  pinions,  to  the  rushing  blast, 

O'er  the  bursting  billow,  spread, 
Where  the  vessel  plunges,  hurry  past, 

Like  an  angel  of  the  dead. 

Thou  art  perched  aloft  on  the  beetling  crag, 

And  the  waves  are  white  below, 
And  on,  with  a  haste  that  cannot  lag, 

They  rush  in  an  endless  flow. 
Again  thou  hast  plumed  thy  wing  for  flight 

To  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  away,  like  a  spirit  wreathed  in  light, 

Thou  hurriest,  wild  and  free. 

Thou  hurriest  over  the  myriad  waves, 
And  thou  leavest  them  all  behind ; 

Thou  sweepest  that  place  of  unknown  graves, 
Fleet  as  the  tempest  wind. 

*  Alluding  to  an  Indian  superstition. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  *2G3 

When  the  night  storm  gathers  dim  and  dark, 

With  a  shrill  and  boding  scream, 
Thou  rushest  by  the  foundering  bark, 

Quick  as  a  passing  dream. 

Lord  of  the  boundless  realm  of  air, 

In  thy  imperial  name, 
The  hearts  of  the  bold  and  ardent  dare 

The  dangerous  path  of  fame. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  thy  golden  wings, 

The  Roman  legions  bore, 
From  the  river  of  Egypt's  cloudy  springs, 

Their  pride,  to  the  polar  shore. 

For  thee  they  fought,  for  thee  they  fell, 

And  their  oath  was  on  thee  laid ; 
To  thee  the  clarions  raised  their  swell, 

And  the  dying  warrior  prayed. 
Thou  wert,  through  an  age  of  death  and  fears, 

The  image  of  pride  and  power, 
Till  the  gathered  rage  of  a  thousand  years 

Burst  forth  in  one  awful  hour. 

And  then  a  deluge  of  wrath  it  came, 

And  the  nations  shook  with  dread ; 
And  it  swept  the  earth  till  its  fields  were  flame, 

And  piled  with  the  mingled  dead. 
Kings  were  rolled  in  the  wasteful  flood, 

With  the  low  and  crouching  slave  ; 
And  together  lay,  in  a  shroud  of  blood, 

The  coward  and  the  brave. 

And  where  was  then  thy  fearless  flight  ? 

"  O'er  the  dark,  mysterious  sea, 
To  the  lands  that  caught  the  setting  light, 

The  cradle  of  Liberty. 
There,  on  the  silent  and  lonely  shore, 

For  ages,  I  watched  alone, 
And  the  world,  in  its  darkness,  asked  no  more 

Where  the  glorious  bird  had  flown. 

But  then  came  a  bold  and  hardy  few, 
And  they  breasted  the  unknown  wave ; 

I  caught  afar  the  wandering  crew ; 
And  I  knew  they  were  high  and  brave. 


264  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

I  wheeled  around  the  welcome  bark, 

As  it  sought  the  desolate  shore, 
And  up  to  heaven,  like  a  joyous  lark, 

My  quivering  pinions  bore. 

And  now  that  bold  and  hardy  few 

Are  a  nation  wide  and  strong ; 
And  danger  and  doubt  I  have  led  them  through, 

And  they  worship  me  in  song ; 
And  over  their  bright  and  glancing  arms, 

On  field,  and  lake,  and  sea, 
With  an  eye  that  fires,  and  a  spell  that  charms, 

I  guide  them  to  victory." 


Salmon  River* — Brainard. 

'Tis  a  sweet  stream  ;  and  so,  'tis  true,  are  all 
That,  undisturbed,  save  by  the  harmless  brawl 
Of  mimic  rapid  or  slight  waterfall, 

Pursue  their- way 
By  mossy  bank,  and  darkly  waving  wood, 
By  rock,  that,  since  the  deluge,  fixed  has  stood, 
Snowing  to  sun  and  moon  their  crisping  flood 

By  night  and  day. 

But  yet  there's  something  in  its  humble  rank,     . 
Something  in  its  pure  wave  and  sloping  bank, 
"Where  the  deer  sported,  and  the  young  fawn  drank 

With  unscared  look ; 
There's  much  in  its  wild  history,  that  teems 
With  all  that's  superstitious,  and  that  seems 
To  match  our  fancy  and  eke  out  our  dreams, 

In  that  small  brook. 

Havoc  has  been  upon  its  peaceful  plain, 

And  blood  has  dropped  there,  like  the  drops  of  rain 

The  corn  grows  o'er  the  still  graves  of  the  slain  ; 

And  many  a  quiver, 
Filled  from  the  reeds  that  grew  on  yonder  hill, 

*  This  river  enters  into  the  Connecticut  at  East  Haddarn. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  *^G5 

Has  spent  itself  in  carnage.     Now  'tis  still, 
And  whistling  ploughboys  oft  their  runlets  fill 
From  Salmon  river. 

Here,  say  old  men,  the  Indian  Magi  made 
Their  spells  by  moonlight ;  or  beneath  the  shade 
That  shrouds  sequestered  rock,  or  dark'ning  glade, 

Or  tangled  dell. 
Here  Philip  came,  and  Miantonimo, 
And  asked  about  their  fortunes  long  ago, 
As  Saul  to  Endor,  that  her  witch  might  show 

Old  Samuel. 

And  here  the  black  fox  roved,  that  howled  and  shook 
His  thick  tail  to  the  hunters,  by  the  brook 
Where  they  pursued  their  game,  and  him  mistook 

For  earthly  fox  ; 
Thinking  to  shoot  him  like  a  shaggy  bear, 
And  his  soft  peltry,  stripped  and  dressed,  to  wear, 
Or  lay  a  trap,  and  from  his  quiet  lair 

Transfer  him  to  a  box. 

Such  are  the  tales  they  tell.     'Tis  hard  to  rhyme 
About  a  little  and  unnoticed  stream, 
That  few  have  heard  of;  but  it  is  a  theme 

I  chance  to  love  : 
And  one  day  I  may  tune  my  rye-straw  reed, 
And  whistle  to  the  note  of  many  a  deed 
Done  on  this  river,  which,  if  there  be  need, 

I'll  try  to  prove. 


To  the  Evening  Wind. — Bryant.* 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

*  The  Talisman  has  contained  some  very  beautiful  poetry,  each  year  of 
its  publication  ;  but  this, — we  had  almost  said  it  13  the  sweetest  thing  in 
the  language.  Not  in  any  one  of  the  Souvenirs,  either  English  or  American, 
has  there  ever  appeared  a  page  of  such  pure,  deep,  finished  poetry.  It  has 
all  the  characteristics  of  Bryant's  style — his  chaste  elegance,  both  in 
thought  and  expression, — ornament  enough,  but  not  in  profusion  or  dis- 
play,— imagery  that  is  natural,  appropriate,  and,  in  this  instance,  peculiar- 
ly soothing, — select  and  melodious  language, — harmony  in  the  flow  of  the 
stanza, — gentleness  of  feeling,  and  richness  of  philosophy. — Ed. 
23 


266  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow  ; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 
Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 
And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 
To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning  from  "the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  'twixt  the  o'ershadowing  branches  and  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, . 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

That  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 

Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more ; 
Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 

Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  ~G7 


The  Grave  of  the  Indian  Chief. — Percival. 

They  laid  the  corse  of  the  wild  and  brave 

On  the  sweet,  fresh  earth  of  the  new  day  grave, 

On  the  gentle  hill,  where  wild  weeds  waved, 
And  flowers  and  grass  were  flourishing 

They  laid  within  the  peaceful  bed, 
Close  by  the  Indian  chieftain's  head, 

His  bow  and  arrows  ;  and  they  said, 

That  he  had  found  new  hunting  grounds, 

Where  bounteous  Nature  only  tills 

The  willing  soil ;  and  o'er  whose  hills, 

And  down  beside  the  shady  rills, 
The  hero  roams  eternally. 

And  these  fair  isles  to  the  westward  lie, 

Beneath  a  golden  sun-set  sky, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  never  die, 

And  song  and  dance  move  endlessly. 

They  told  of  the  feats  of  his  dog  and  gun, 
They  told  of  the  deeds  his  arm  had  done, 

They  sung  of  battles  lost  and  won, 
And  so  they  paid  his  eulogy. 

And  o'er  his  arms,  and  o'er  his  bones, 
They  raised  a  simple  pile  of  stones  ; 

Which,  hallowed  by  their  tears  and  moans, 
Was  all  the  Indian's  monument. 

And  since  the  chieftain  here  has  slept, 
Full  many  a  winter's  winds  have  swept, 

And  many  an  age  has  softly  crept 
Over  his  humble  sepulchre. 


Escape  from  Winter. — Percival. 

O,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  swallow,  I'd  fly 
Where  the  roses  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long  ; 


268  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Where  the  landscape  is  always  a  feast  to  the  eye, 
And  the  bills  of  the  warblers  are  ever  in  song; 

O,  then  I  would  fly  from  the  cold  and  the  snow. 
And  hie  to  the  land  of  the  orange  and  vine, 

And  carol  the  winter  away  in  the  glow 
That  rolls  o'er  the  evergreen  bowers  of  the  line. 

Indeed,  I  should  gloomily  steal  o'er  the  deep, 

Like  the  storm-loving  petrel,  that  skims  there  alone ; 
I  would  take  me  a  dear  little  martin  to  keep 

A  sociable  flight  to  the  tropical  zone  ; 
How  cheerily,  wing  by  wing,  over  the  sea, 

We  would  fly  from  the  dark  clouds  of  winter  away ! 
And  forever  our  song  and  our  twitter  should  be, 

"  To  the  land  where  the  year  is  eternally  gay." 

We  would  nestle  awhile  in  the  jessamine  bowers, 

And  take  up  our  lodge  in  the  crown  of  the  palm, 
And  live,  like  the  bee,  on  its  fruit  and  its  flowers, 

That  always  are  flowing  with  honey  and  balm  ; 
And  there  we  would  stay,  till  the  winter  is  o'er, 

And  April  is  chequered  with  sunshine  and  rain — 
O,  then  we  would  fly  from  that  far-distant  shore, 

Over  island  and  wave,  to  our  country  again. 

How  light  we  would  skim,  where  the  billows  are  rolled 

Through  clusters  that  bend  with  the  cane  and  the  lime, 
And  break  on  the  beaches  in  surges  of  gold, 

When  morning  comes  forth  in  her  loveliest  prime  ! 
We  would  touch  for  a  while,  as  we  traversed  the  ocean, 

At  the  islands  that  echoed  to  Waller  and  Moore, 
And  winnow  our  wings,  with  an  easier  motion, 

Through  the  breath  of  the  cedar,  that  blows  from  the  shore. 

And  when  we  had  rested  our  wings,  and  had  fed 

On  the  sweetness  that  comes  from  the  juniper  groves, 
By  the  spirit  of  home  and  of  infancy  led, 

We  would  hurry  again  to  the  land  of  our  loves  ; 
And  when  from  the  breast  of  the  ocean  would  spring, 

Far  off  in  the  distance,  that  dear  native  shore, 
In  the  joy  of  our  hearts  we  would  cheerily  sing, 

"  No  land  is  so  lovely,  when  winter  is  o'er." 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  269 


Bury  Me  with  my  Fathers. — Andrews  Norton. 

O  ne'er  upon  my  grave  be  shed 

The  bitter  tears  of  sinking  age, 
That  mourns  its  cherished  comforts  dead, 

With  grief  no  human  hopes  assuage. 

When,  through  the  still  and  gazing  street, 

My  funeral  winds  its  sad  array, 
Ne'er  may  a  father's  faltering  feet 

Lead,  with  slow  steps,  the  churchyard  way. 

'Tis  a  dread  sight — the  sunken  eye, 
The  look  of  calm  and  fixed  despair, 

And  the  pale  lips  that  breathe  no  sigh, 
But  quiver  with  th'  unuttered  prayer. 

Ne'er  may  a  mother  hide  her  tears, 
As  the  mute  circle  spreads  around, 

Or,  turning  from  my  grave,  she  hears 
The  clod  fall  fast  with  heavy  sound. 

Ne'er  may  she  know  the  sinking  heart, 

The  dreary  loneliness  of  grief, 
When  all  is  o'er,  when  all  depart, 

And  cease  to  yield  theip  sad  relief; 

Nor,  entering  in  my  vacant  room, 

Feel,  in  its  chill  and  heavy  air, 
As  if  the  dampness  of  the  tomb 

And  spirits  of  the  dead  were  there. 

O  welcome,  though  with  care  and  pain, 
The  power  to  glad  a  parent's  heart ; 

To  bid  a  parent's  joys  remain, 
And  life's  approaching  ills  depart. 


Redemption. — W.  B.  Tappan. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  prophet  of  the  skies 
Proclaims  redemption  near ; 
23* 


270  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  night  of  death  and  bondage  flies, 
The  dawning  tints  appear. 

Zion,  from  deepest  shades  of  gloom, 

Awakes  to  glorious  day  ; 
Her  desert  wastes  with  verdure  bloom, 

Her  shadows  flee  away. 

To  heal  her  wounds,  her  night  dispel, 
The  heralds*  cross  the  main ; 

On  Calvary's  awful  brow  they  tell, 
That  Jesus  lives  again. 

From  Salem's  towers,  the  Islam  sign, 

With  holy  zeal,  is  hurled : 
'Tis  there  Immanuel's  symbols  shine, 

His  banner  is  unfurled. 

The  gladdening  news,  conveyed  afar, 

Remotest  nations  hear ; 
To  welcome  Judah's  rising  star, 

The  ransomed  tribes  appear. 

Again  in  Bethlehem  swells  the  song, 

The  choral  breaks  again ; 
While  Jordan's  shores  the  strains  prolong, 

"  Good-will,  and  peace  to  men  !" 


On  the  Close  of  the  Year. — Christian  Examiner. 

'Tis  midnight — from  the  dark  blue  sky, 
The  stars,  which  now  look  down  on  earth, 

Have  seen  ten  thousand  centuries  fly, 
And  give  to  countless  changes  birth. 

And  when  the  pyramids  shall  fall, 
And,  mouldering,  mix  as  dust  in  air, 

The  dwellers  on  this  altered  ball 

May  still  behold  them  glorious  there. 

*  Missionaries  to  Palestine. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  271 

Shine  on  !  shine  on  !  with  you  I  tread 

The  march  of  ages,  orbs  of  light ; 
A  last  eclipse  may  o'er  you  spread ; 

To  me,  to  me,  there  comes  no  night. 

O,  what  concerns  it  him,  whose  way 

Lies  upward  to  the  immortal  dead, 
That  a  few  hairs  are  turning  gray, 

Or  one  more  year  of  life  has  fled  ? 

Swift  years,  but  teach  me  how  to  bear, 
To  feel,  and  act,  with  strength  and  skill, 

To  reason  wisely,  nobly  dare, 

And  speed  your  courses  as  ye  will. 

When  life's  meridian  toils  are  done, 

How  calm,  how  rich,  the  twilight  glow ! 

The  morning  twilight  of  a  sun, 

That  shines  not  here — on  things  below. 

But  sorrow,  sickness,  death — the  pain 

To  leave,  or  lose,  wife,  children,  friends — 

What  then  ?     Shall  we  not  meet  again, 
Where  parting  comes  not,  sorrow  ends  ? 

The  fondness  of  a  parent's  care, 

The  changeless  trust  that  woman  gives, 

The  smile  of  childhood — it  is  there, 
That  all  we  love  in  them  still  lives. 

Press  onward  through  each  varying  hour; 

Let  no  weak  fears  thy  course  delay ; 
Immortal  being,  feel  thy  power ; 

Pursue  thy  bright  and  endless  way. 


Saturday  Afternoon. — N.  P.  Willis. 

I  love  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray  ; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  it  makes  his  pulses  fly, 


272  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 
And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years  ; 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
And  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true  ;  it  is  very  true  ; 

I'm  old,  and  "  I  'bide  my  time  ;" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on ;  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go ; 
For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low : 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


Fall  of  Tecumseh. — New  York  Statesman. 

What  heavy-hoofed  coursers  the  wilderness  roam, 
To  the  war-blast  indignantly  tramping  ? 

Their  mouths  are  all  white,  as  if  frosted  with  foam, 
The  steel  bit  impatiently  champing. 

'Tis  the  hand  of  the  mighty  that  grasps  the  rein, 

Conducting  the  free  and  the  fearless. 
Ah  !  see  them  rush  forward,  with  wild  disdain, 

Through  paths  unfrequented  and  cheerless. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  273 

From  the  mountains  had  echoed  the  charge  of  death, 

Announcing  that  chivalrous  sally  ; 
The  savage  was  heard,  with  untrembling  breath, 

To  pour  his  response  from  the  valley. 

One  moment,  and  nought  but  the  bugle  was  heard, 

And  nought  but  the  war-whoop  given ; 
The  next,  and  the  sky  seemed  convulsively  stirred, 

As  if  by  the  lightning  riven. 

The  din  of  the  steed,  and  the  sabred  stroke, 

The  blood-stifled  gasp  of  the  dying, 
Were  screened  by  the  curling  sulphur-smoke, 

That  upward  went  wildly  flying. 

In  the  mist  that  hung  over  the  field  of  blood, 

The  chief  of  the  horsemen  contended  ; 
His  rowels  were  bathed  in  the  purple  flood, 

That  fast  from  his  charger  descended. 

That  steed  reeled,  and  fell,  in  the  van  of  the  fight, 

But  the  rider  repressed  not  his  daring, 
Till  met  by  a  savage,  whose  rank  and  might 

Were  shown  by  the  plume  he  was  wearing. 

The  moment  was  fearful ;  a  mightier  foe 
Had  ne'er  swung  the  battle-axe  o'er  him; 

But  hope  nerved  his  arm  for  a  desperate  blow, 
And  Tecumseh  fell  prostrate  before  him. 

O  ne'er  may  the  nations  again  be  cursed 

With  conflict  so  dark  and  appalling ! — 
Foe  grappled  with  foe,  till  the  life-blood  burst 

From  their  agonized  bosoms  in  falling. 

Gloom,  silence,  and  solitude,  rest  on  the  spot 
Where  the  hopes  of  the  red  man  perished ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  hero  who  fell  shall  not, 
By  the  virtuous,  cease  to  be  cherished. 

He  fought,  in  defence  of  his  kindred  and  king, 

With  a  spirit  most  loving  and  loyal ; 
And  long  shall  the  Indian  warrior  sing 

The  deeds  of  Tecumseh  the  royal. 


274  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

The  lightning  of  intellect  flashed  from  his  eye, 
In  his  arm  slept  the  force  of  the  thunder, 

But  the  bolt  passed  the  suppliant  harmlessly  by, 
And  left  the  freed  captive  to  wonder.* 

Above,  near  the  path  of  the  pilgrim,  he  sleeps, 

With  a  rudely-built  tumulus  o'er  him  ; 
And  the  bright-bosomed  Thames,  in  its  majesty,  sweeps, 

By  the  mound  where  his  followers  bore  him. 


The  Missionaries'  Farewell. — Anonymous. 

Land  where  the  bones  of  our  fathers  are  sleeping, 
Land  where  our  dear  ones  and  fond  ones  are  weeping, 
Land  where  the  light  of  Jehovah  is  shining, 
We  leave  thee  lamenting,  but  not  with  repining. 

Land  of  our  fathers,  in  grief  we  forsake  thee, 
Land  of  our  friends,  may  Jehovah  protect  thee, 
Land  of  the  church,  may  the  light  shine  around  thee, 
Nor  darkness,  nor  trouble,  nor  sorrow  confound  thee. 

God  is  thy  God ;  thou  shalt  walk  in  His  brightness ; 
Gird  thee  with  joy,  let  thy  robes  be  of  whiteness  : 
God  is  thy  God !   let  thy  hills  shout  for  gladness  ; 
But  ah !  we  must  leave  thee — we  leave  thee  in  sadness. 

Dark  is  our  path  o'er  the  dark  rolling  ocean : 
Dark  are  our  hearts  ;  but  the  fire  of  devotion 
Kindles  within  ; — and  a  far  distant  nation 
Shall  learn  from  our  lips  the  glad  song  of  salvation. 

Hail  to  the  land  of  our  toils  and  our  sorrows ! 
Land  of  our  rest ! — when  a  few  more  to-morrows 
Pass  o'er  our  heads,  we  will  seek  our  cold  pillows, 
And  rest  in  our  graves,  far  away  o'er  the  billows. 

*  This  highly  intellectual  savage,  appropriately  styled  "  king  of  tha 
woods,"  was  no  less  distinguished  for  his  acts  of  humanity  than  heroism. 
He  fell  in  the  bloody  charge  at  Moravian  town,  during  the  war  of  1812-15 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  275 


Mozart's  Requiem. — Rufus  Dawes. 

The  tongue  of  the  vigilant  clock  tolled  one, 

In  a  deep  and  hollow  tone  ; 
The  shrouded  moon  looked  out  upon 
A  cold,  dank  region,  more  cheerless  and  dun, 

By  her  lurid  light  that  shone. 

Mozart  now  rose  from  a  restless  bed, 

And  his  heart  was  sick  with  care  ; 
Though  long  had  he  wooingly  sought  to  wed 
Sweet  Sleep,  'twas  in  vain,  for  the  coy  maid  fled, 

Though  he  followed  her  every  where. 

He  knelt  to  the  God  of  his  worship  then, 

And  breathed  a  fervent  prayer  ; 
'Twas  balm  to  his  soul,  and  he  rose  again 
With  a  strengthened  spirit,  but  started  when 

He  marked  a  stranger  there. 

He  was  tall,  the  stranger  who  gazed  on  him, 

Wrapped  high  in  a  sable  shroud  ; 
His  cheek  was  pale,  and  his  eye  was  dim, 
And  the  melodist  trembled  in  every  limb, 

The  while  his  heart  beat  loud. 

"  Mozart,  there  is  one  whose  errand  I  bear, 

Who  cannot  be  known  to  thee  ; 
He  grieves  for  a  friend,  and  would  have  thee  prepare 
A  requiem,  blending  a  mournful  air 

With  the  sweetest  melody.  " 

"  I'll  furnish  the  requiem  then,"  he  cried, 

"  When  this  moon  has  waned  away !" 
The  stranger  bowed,  yet  no  word  replied,' 
But  fled  like  the  shade  on  a  mountain's  side, 

When  the  sunlight  hides  its  ray. 

Mozart  grew  pale  when  the  vision  fled, 

And  his  heart  beat  high  with  fear  ; 
He  knew  'twas  a  messenger  sent  from  the  dead, 
To  warn  him,  that  soon  he  must  make  his  bed 

In  the  dark,  chill  sepulchre. 


276  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

He  knew  that  the  days  of  his  life  were  told, 

And  his  breast  grew  faint  within ; 
The  blood  through  his  bosom  crept  slowly  and  cold, 
And  his  lamp  of  life  could  barely  hold 

The  flame  that  was  flickering. 

Yet  he  went  to  his  task  with  a  cheerful  zeal, 
While  his  days  and  nights  were  one ; 

He  spoke  not,  he  moved  not,  but  only  to  kneel 

With  the  holy  prayer — "  0  God,  I  feel 
'Tis  best  thy  will  be  done  !" 

He  gazed  on  his  loved  one,  who  cherished  him  well, 

And  weepingly  hung  o'er  him  : 
"  This  music  will  chime  with  my  funeral  knell, 
And  my  spirit  shall  float,  at  the  passing  bell, 

On  the  notes  of  this  requiem !" 

The  cold  moon  waned :  on  that  cheerless  day 

The  stranger  appeared  once  more  ; 
Mozart  had  finished  his  requiem  lay, 
But  e'er  the  last  notes  had  died  away, 

His  spirit  had  gone  before. 


"  I  will  be  glad  in  the  Lord."     Psalm  civ.  34 
Anonymous, 

When  morning's  first  and  hallowed  ray 

Breaks  with  its  trembling  light, 
To  chase  the  pearly  dews  away, 

Bright  tear-drops  of  the  night, — 

My  heart,  0  Lord,  forgets  to  rove, 

But  rises  gladly  free, 
On  wings  of  everlasting  love, 

And  finds  its  home  in  Thee. 

When  evening's  silent  shades  descend, 

And  nature  sinks  to  rest, 
Still  to  my  Father  and  my  Friend 

My  wishes  are  addressed. 


COMMON-rLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  277 

Though  tears  may  dim  my  hours  of  joy, 

And  bid  my  pleasures  flee, 
Thou  reign'st  where  grief  cannot  annoy ; 

I  will  be  glad  in  Thee. 

And  e'en  when  midnight's  solemn  gloom, 

Above,  around,  is  spread, 
Sweet  dreams  of  everlasting  bloom 

Are  hovering  o'er  my  head. 

I  dream  of  that  fair  land,  O  Lord, 

Where  all  thy  saints  shall  be ; 
I  wake  to  lean  upon  thy  word, 

And  still  delight  in  Thee. 


To  the  Memory  of  a  Brother. — Anonymous. 

Behold  the  glorious  morn!  and  where  art  thou, 
To  feel  its  first  rich  breath  on  thy  sweet  brow, 

Child  of  our  hope  and  love  ? 
And  stand,  with  the  spring  flowers  about  thee  waking, 
And  catch  the  early  music  that  is  breaking 

From  valley  and  fresh  grove  ? 

Were  these  to  thee  a  weariness — the  birds, 
And  the  bright  waters,  and  the  earnest  words 

Of  strong  affection  shed — 
A  mother's  love,  whose  holy  influence  fell, 
In  its  deep  truth  and  its  unchanging  spell, 

Like  light,  upon  thy  head  ? 

"  Young  brother!"  had  the  sound  no  joy  for  thee, 
That  in  the  dust  this  hour  thy  form  should  be, 

And  mute  thy  blessed  voice  ? 
O,  there  be  yearnings  for  thee,  gentlest  one, 
Gone  with  thy  grace  and  thy  sweet  laughter's  tone. 

Meet  were  thy  footsteps  for  the  world  of  flowers, 
And  thy  lost  beauty  for  the  coming  hours 

Of  the  crowned  summer's  reign  ; 
And  thou  within  the  silent  grave  art  laid, 
And  melody  of  bird  and  breeze  is  made 

Henceforth  to  thee  in  vain. 
24 


278  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  there  are  dancing  o'er  the  joyous  earth 
Light  hearted  children  in  their  fearless  mirth ; 

And  they  remember  not 
The  clasping  of  thy  gentle  hand,  thou  child, 
The  spirit  beautiful  and  undented, 

Now  parted  from  their  lot. 

But  I  will  speak  of  thee  at  eventide, 

When,  in  their  watchfulness,  the  pure  stars  glide 

Above  thy  narrow  bed, 
And  when,  alas  !  shall  come  the  morning's  gleam 
Bringing  all  beauty  unto  leaf  and  stream, 

Yet  reaching  not  the  dead. 

I  will  remember,  and  the  dream  shall  be 
Forever  more  a  welcome  thing  to  me, 

Child  of  my  bosom's  love  ; 
And  I  will  deem  thou'rt  standing  even  now, 
With  the  hair  parted  on  thy  sinless  brow, 

In  a  bright  world  above, 


A  Home  everywhere. — S.  Graham. 

Heave,  mighty  ocean,  heave, 
And  blow,  thou  boisterous  wind  ; 

Onward  we  swiftly  glide,  and  leave 
Our  home  and  friends  behind. 

Away,  away  we  steer, 

Upon  the  ocean's  breast ; 
And  dim  the  distant  heights  appear, 

Like  clouds  along  the  west. 

There  is  a  loneliness 

Upon  the  mighty  deep ; 
And  hurried  thoughts  upon  us  press, 

As  onwardly  we  sweep. 

Our  home — 0,  heavens — that  word ! 

A  name  without  a  thing  ! 
We  are  e'en  as  a  lonely  bird, 

Whose  home  is  on  the  wing. 


COMMOX-rLACE    BQOK    OF    POETRY.  "279 

My  wife  and  little  one 

Are  with  me  as  I  go  ; 
And  they  are  all,  beneath  the  sun, 

I  have  of  weal  or  wo. 

With  them,  upon  the  sea 

Or  land,  where'er  I  roam, 
My  all  on  earth  is  still  with  me, 

And  I  am  still  at  home. 

Heave,  mighty  ocean,  heave, 

And  blow,  thou  boisterous  wind : 
Where'er  we  go,  we  cannot  leave 

Our  home  and  friends  behind. 

Then  come,  my  lovely  bride, 

And  come,  my  child  of  wo ; 
Since  we  have  nought  on  earth  beside, 

What  matters  where  we  go  ? 

We  heed  not  earthly  powers, 

We  heed  not  wind  nor  weather ; 
For,  come  what  will,  this  joy  is  ours — 

We  share  it  still  together. 

And  if  the  storms  are  wild, 

And  we  perish  in  the  sea, 
We'll  clasp  each  other  and  our  child : 

One  grave  shall  hold  the  three. 

And  neither  shall  remain 

To  meet,  and  bear  alone, 
The  cares,  the  injuries,  the  pain, 

That  we,  my  love,  have  known. 

And  there's  a  sweeter  joy, 

Wherever  we  may  be  : 
Danger  nor  death  can  e'er  destroy 

Our  trust,  0  God,  in  thee. 

Then  wherefore  should  we  grieve  ? 

Or  what  have  we  to  fear  ? 
Though  home,  and  friends,  and  life,  we  leave, 

Our  God  is  ever  near. 


280  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY, 

If  He  who  made  all  things, 
And  rules  them,  is  our  own, 

Then  every  grief  and  trial  brings 
Us  nearer  to  his  throne. 

Then  come,  my  gentle  bride, 
And  come,  my  child  of  love  ; 

What  if  we've  nought  on  earth  beside  ? 
Our  portion  is  above. 

Sweep,  mighty  ocean,  sweep ; 

Ye  winds,  blow  foul  or  fair  ; 
Our  God  is  with  us  on  the  deep, 

Our  home  is  every  where. 


The  Time  to  weep. — Anonymous. 

There  is  a  time  to  laugh, 
When  Joy  may  raise  his  billows  like  the  deep, 

And  twine  with  wreaths  of  flowers  the  cup  we  quaff  ;- 
But,  0,  when  is  the  season  not  to  weep  ? 

Is  it  when  vernal  suns 
Unfold  the  silken  flower  and  satin  leaf? 

Or  when  the  hoar  frost  nips  the  fading  ones, 
That  frailer  beings  may  refrain  from  grief? 

Is  it  when  health  and  bloom 
Are  painted  on  the  smiling  cheek  of  youth  ? 

Or  when  disease  is  training  for  the  tomb 
The  heart  which  cherishes  its  bitter  truth  ? 

Look  not  upon  the  brow, 
That  shows  no  furrow  from  the  plough  of  years ; 

There  is  a  bend  of  peace  upon  it  now — 
But,  O,  futurity  is  full  of  tears! 

The  prattling  child  at  play- 
May  charm  itself,  and  dry  its  tears  awhile  ; 
But  could  its  vision  reach  beyond  to-day, 
And  read  its  sorrows,  think  you  it  would  smile  ? 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  281 

Destruction  has  its  home, 
And  Mirth  is  destined  to  some  favorite  spot ; 
Disease  and  all  his  brothers  do  not  roam  ; 
But  where,  O  Wretchedness,  where  art  thou  not  ? 

Thou  hast  thy  dark  abode 
In  the  lone  desert — in  the  prison's  cell ; 

And  in  the  gayest  scene,  where  ever  flowed 
The  tide  of  wine  and  music,  thou  dost  dwell. 

Thou  art  where  friends  are  torn 
And  held  asunder  by  reluctant  space  ; 

And  meeting  friends — 0,  do  they  never  mourn 
When  Memory  paints  thine  image  on  the  face  ? 

Thy  inmates  of  the  breast — 
All  other  passions — are  but  weak  and  brief; 

Joy,  Hope,  Pride,  Love  and  Hatred  have  a  rest, 
But  thou  art  constant  as  our  breath,  O  Grief! 

Then  let  the  trifler  laugh, 
And  Joy  lift  his  glad  billows  like  the  deep, 

And  twine  with  wreaths  of  flowers  the  cup  we  quaff; 
It  is  far  better  for  the  wise  to  weep. 


The  Autumn  Evening. — Peabot>y. 

Behold  the  western  evening  light ! 

It  melts  in  deepening  gloom  ; 
So  calmly  Christians  sink  away, 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

The  winds  breathe  low  ;  the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  whispers  from  the  tree  ; 

So  gently  flows  the  parting  breath, 
When  good  men  cease  to  be. 

How  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 

The  crimson  light  is  shed  ! 
'Tis  like  the  peace  the  Christian  gives 

To  mourners  round  his  bed. 
24* 


282  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

How  mildly  on  the  wandering  cloud 

The  sunset  beam  is  cast ! 
*Tis  like  the  memory  left  behind 

When  loved  ones  breathe  their  last. 

And  now,  above  the  dews  of  night, 

The  yellow  star  appears ; 
So  faith  springs  in  the  heart  of  those 

Whose  eyes  are  bathed  in  tears. 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glory  shall  restore, 
And  eyelids  that  are  sealed  in  death 

Shall  wake  to  close  no  more. 


Lines  on  revisiting  the  Country. — Bryant. 

I  stand  upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that,  in  the  southern  sky, 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie  ; 
While  deep  the  sunless,  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever-restless  steps  of  one,  who  now 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year : 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved,  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light ; 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains  ;  to  behold, 

With  deep  affection,  the  pure,  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  the  blue  abysses  rolled  ; 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

Here  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air ; 

And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OT    POLiilY. 

The  song  of  bird  and  sound  of  running  stream, 
Have  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun:  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen ; 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take 
From  thy  fierce  heats  a  deeper,  glossier  green; 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thjr  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind — most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows — when,  in  the  sultry  time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime. — 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 

Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


The  Spirit's  Song  of  Consolation .* — F.  W.  P.  Greenwood. 

Dear  parents,  grieve  no  more  for  me ; 

My  parents,  grieve  no  more  ; 
Believe  that  I  am  happier  far 

Than  even  with  you  before. 
I've  left  a  world  where  wo  and  sin 

Swell  onwards  as  a  river, 
And  gained  a  world  where  I  shall  rest 

In  peace  and  joy  forever. 

Our  Father  bade  me  come  to  him, 

He  gently  bade  me  come, 
And  he  has  made  his  heavenly  house 

My  dwelling  place  and  home. 
On  that  best  day  of  all  the  seven, 

Which  saw  the  Savior  rise, 
I  heard  the  voice  you  could  not  hear, 

Which  called  me  to  the  skies. 

I  saw,  too,  what  3-ou  could  not  see, 

Two  beauteous  angels  stand  ; 
They  smiling  stood,  and  looked  at  me 

And  beckoned  with  their  hand ; 

*  Supposed  to  be  addressed  by  the  departed  spirit  of  a  boy  to  his  parents, 
who  had  lost  two  other  children  before  him. 


284  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

They  said  they  were  my  sisters  dear, 

And  they  were  sent  to  bear 
My  spirit  to  their  blessed  abode, 

To  live  forever  there. 

Then  think  not  of  the  mournful  time 

When  I  resigned  my  breath, 
Nor  of  the  place  where  I  was  laid, 

The  gloomy  house  of  death  ; 
But  think  of  that  high  world,  where  I 

No  more  shall  suffer  pain, 
And  of  the  time  when  all  of  us 

In  heaven  shall  meet  asrain. 


Colonization  of  Africa. — Braixard. 

All  sights  are  fair  tc  the  recovered  blind; 

All  sounds  are  music  to  the  deaf  restored ; 
The  lame,  made  whole,  leaps  like  the  sporting  hind  ; 

And  the  sad,  bowed-down  sinner,  with  his  load 
Of  shame  and  sorrow,  when  he  cuts  the  cord, 

And  drops  the  pack.it  bound,  is  free  again 
In  the  light  yoke  and  burden  of  his  Lord. 

Thus,  with  the  birthright  of  his  fellow  man, 

Sees,  hears  and  feels  at  once  the  righted  African. 

sTis  somewhat  like  the  burst  from  death  to  life  ; 

From  the  grave's  cerements  to  the  robes  of  heaven ; 
From  Sin's  dominion,  and  from  Passion's  strife, 

To  the  pure  freedom  of  a  soul  forgiven  ! 

When  all  the  bonds  of  death  and  hell  are  riven, 
And  mortals  put  on  immortality  ; 

When  fear,  and  care,  and  grief,  away  are  driven, 
And  Mercy's  hand  has  turned  the  golden  key, 
And  Mercy's  voice  has  said,  "  Rejoice — thy  soul  is  free ' 


Fable  of  the  Wood  Rose  and  the  Laurel.- 

Mo.\TKLY  ANTHOLOGY. 

In  these  deep  shades  a  floweret  blows, 
Whose  leaves  a  thousand  sweets  disclose,; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  285 

With  modest  air  it  hides  its  charms, 
And  every  breeze  its  leaves  alarms  ; 
Turns  on  the  ground  its  bashful  eyes, 
And  oft  unknown,  neglected,  dies. 
This  flower,  as  late  I  careless  strayed, 
I  saw  in  all  its  charms  arrayed. 
Fast  by  the  spot  where  low  it  grew, 
A  proud  ami  flaunting  Wood  Rose  blew. 
With  haughty  air  her  head  she  raised, 
And  on  the  beauteous  plant  she  gazed. 
While  struggling  passion  swelled  her  breast, 
She  thus  her  kindling  rage  expressed : 

"  Thou  worthless  flower, 

Go  leave  my  bower, 
And  hide  in  humbler  scenes  thy  head  : 

How  dost  thou  dare, 

Where  roses  are, 
Thy  scents  to  shed  ? 

Go,  leave  my  bower,  and  live  unknown ; 
I'll  rule  the  field  of  flowers  alone." 

...."  And  dost  thou  think" — the  Laurel  cried, 
And  raised  its  head  with  modest  pride, 
While  on  its  little  trembling  tongue 
A  drop  of  dew  incumbent  hung — 

"  And  dost  thou  think  I'll  leave  this  bower, 
The  seat  of  many  a  friendly  flower, 

The  scene  where  first  I  grew  ? 
Thy  haughty  reign  will  soon  be  o'er, 
And  thy  frail  form  will  bloom  no  more ; 

My  flower  will  perish  too. 

But  know,  proud  rose, 
When  winter's  snows 

Shall  fall  wrhere  once  thy  beauties  stood, 
My  pointed  leaf  of  shining  green 
Will  still  amid  the  gloom  be  seen, 

To  cheer  the  leafless  wood." 

"  Presuming  fool !"  the  Wood  Rose  cried, 
And  strove  in  vain  her  shame  to  hide ; 

But,  ah  !  no  more  the  flower  could  say ; 
For,  while  she  spoke,  a  transient  breeze 


286  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Came  rustling  through  the  neighboring  trees, 
And  bore  her  boasted  charms  away. 

And  such,  said  I,  is  Beauty's  power ! 
Like  thee  she  falls,  poor  trifling  flower ; 

And,  if  she  lives  her  little  day, 
Life's  winter  comes  with  rapid  pace, 
And  robs  her  form  of  every  grace, 

And  steals  her  bloom  away. 

But  in  thy  form,  thou  Laurel  green, 
Fair  Virtue's  semblance  soon  is  seen. 

In  life  she  cheers  each  different  stage, 
Spring's  transient  reign,  and  Summer's  glow, 
And  Autumn  mild,  advancing  slow, 

And  lights  the  eye  of  age. 


A  Castle  in  the  Air* — Professor  Frisbie. 

I'll  tell  you,  friend,  what  sort  of  wife, 
Whene'er  I  scan  this  scene  of  life, 

Inspires  my  waking  schemes, 
And  when  I  sleep,  with  form  so  light, 
Dances  before  my  ravished  sight, 

In  sweet  aerial  dreams. 

The  rose  its  blushes  need  not  lend, 
Nor  yet  the  lily  with  them  blend, 

To  captivate  my  eyes. 
Give  me  a  cheek  the  heart  obeys, 
And,  sweetly  mutable,  displays 

Its  feelings  as  they  rise  ; 

Features,  where  pensive,  more  than  gay, 
Save  when  a  rising  smile  doth  play, 

The  sober  thought  you  see  ; 
Eyes  that  all  soft  and  tender  seem, 
And  kind  affections  round  them  beam, 

But  most  of  all  on  me  ; 

*This  is  a  beautiful  domestic  picture.     Without  being  an  imitation,  it 
reminds  us  of  Cottou'd  FiresLle.^-ED. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  287 

A  form,  though  not  of  finest  mould, 
Where  yet  a  something  you  behold 

Unconsciously  doth  please ; 
Manners  all  graceful  without  art, 
That  to  each  look  and  word  impart 

A  modesty  and  ease. 

But  still  her  air,  her  face,  each  charm, 
Must  speak  a  heart  with  feeling  warm, 

And  mind  inform  the  whole  ; 
With  mind  her  mantling  cheek  must  glow, 
Her  voice,  her  beaming  eye  must  show 

An  all-inspiring  soul. 

Ah !  could  I  such  a  being  find, 

And  were  her  fate  to  mine  but  joined 

By  Hymen's  silken  tie, 
To  her  myself,  my  all  I'd  give, 
For  her  alone  delighted  live, 

For  her  consent  to  die. 

Whene'er  by  anxious  gloom  oppressed, 
On  the  soft  pillow  of  her  breast 

My  aching  head  I'd  lay  ; 
At  her  sweet  smile  each  care  should  cease; 
Her  kiss  infuse  a  balmy  peace, 

And  drive  my  griefs  away. 

In  turn,  I'd  soften  all  her  care, 

Each  thought,  each  wish,  each  feeling  share ; 

Should  sickness  e'er  invade, 
My  voice  should  soothe  each  rising  sigh, 
My  hand  the  cordial  should  supply  ; 

I'd  watch  beside  her  bed. 

Should  gathering  clouds  our  sky  deform, 
My  arms  should  shield  her  from  the  storm ; 

And,  were  its  fury  hurled, 
My  bosom  to  its  bolts  I'd  bare, 
In  her  defence  undaunted  dare 

Defy  the  opposing  world. 

Together  should  our  prayers  ascend, 
Together  humbly  would  we  bend; 


288  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

To  praise  the  Almighty  name  ; 
And  when  I  saw  her  kindling  eye 
Beam  upwards  to  her  native  sky, 

My  soul  should  catch  the  flame. 

Thus  nothing  should  our  hearts  divide, 
But  on  our  years  serenely  glide, 

And  all  to  love  be  given ; 
And,  when  life's  little  scene  was  o'er, 
We'd  part  to  meet  and  part  no  more, 

But  live  and  love  in  heaven. 


The  Consumptive. — Rockingham  Gazette. 

No,  never  more — my  setting  sun 

Hath  sunk  his  evening  rays ; 
And  this  poor  heart  is  nearly  done 

With  hope  of  better  days. 
I  feel  it  in  the  clay-cold  hand, 

The  hard  and  fast  expiring  breath ; 
For  now,  so  near  the  tomb  I  stand, 

I  breathe  the  chilling  airs  of  death. 

No,  never  more — it  all  is  vain- 

But  O,  how  Memory  leans 
To  see,  and  hear,  and  feel  again 

Its  youth-inspiring  scenes ! 
And  deep  the  sigh  that  Memory  heaves, 

When,  one  by  one,  they  all  are  fled, 
As  autumn  gales  on  yellow  leaves, 

That  wither  on  their  woodland  bed. 

No,  never  more — I  may  not  view 

The  summer  vale  and  hill, 
The  glorious  heaven,  the  ocean's  blue, 

The  forests,  dark  and  still — 
The  evening's  beauty,  once  so  dear, 

That  bears  the  glowing  thoughts  above, 
When  nature  seems  to  breathe  and  hear 

The  voiceless  eloquence  of  love. 

No,  never  more — when  prisoners  wait 
The  death-call  to  their  doom, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  289 

And  see,  beyond  their  dungeon  gate, 

The  scaffold  and  the  tomb, 
On  the  fair  earth  and  sun-bright  heaven, 

Their  gaze  how  fervently  they  cast! 
So  death  to  life  a  charm  hath  given, 

And  made  it  loveliest  at  the  last. 

No,  never  more — and  now,  farewell  i 

The  bitter  word  is  said ; 
And  soon,  above  my  green-roofed  cell 

The  careless  foot  will  tread. 
My  heart  hath  found  its  rest  above  ; 

The  cares  of  earth  are  passing  by; 
And,  0,  it  is  a  voice  of  love, 

That  whispers — It  is  time  to  die  ! 


Lines  to  the  Western  Mummy. — W.  E.  Gallatjdet. 

0  straxger,  whose  repose  profound 

These  latter  ages  dare  to  break, 
And  call  thee  from  beneath  the  ground 

Ere  nature  did  thy  slumber  shake  ! 

What  wonders  of  the  secret  earth 

Thy  lip,  too  silent,  might  reveal  ! 
Of  tribes  round  whose  mysterious  birth 

A  thousand  envious  ages  wheel ! 

Thy  race,  by  savage  war  o'errun, 
Sunk  down,  their  very  name  forgot ; 

But  ere  those  fearful  times  begun, 
Perhaps,  in  this  sequestered  spot, 

By  Friendship's  hand  thine  eyelids  closed, 
By  Friendship's  hand  the  turf  was  laid  ; 

And  Friendship  here,  perhaps,  reposed, 
With  moonlight  vigils  in  the  shade. 

The  stars  have  run  their  nightly  round, 
The  sun  looked  out,  and  passed  his  way, 

And  many  a  season  o'er  the  ground 
Has  trod  where  thou  so  soitly  lay. 


290  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  wilt  thou  not  one  moment  raise 
Thy  weary  head,  awhile  to  see 

The  later  sports  of  earthly  days, 

How  like  what  once  enchanted  thee  ? 

Thy  name,  thy  date,  thy  life  declare — 
Perhaps  a  queen,  whose  feathery  band 

A  thousand  maids  have  sighed  to  wear, 
The  brightest  in  thy  beauteous  land — 

Perhaps  a  Helen,  from  whose  eye 
Love  kindled  up  the  flame  of  war — 

Ah  me  !  do  thus  thy  graces  lie 
A  faded  phantom,  and  no  more  ? 

O,  not  like  thee  would  I  remain, 
But  o'er  the  earth  my  ashes  strew, 

And  in  some  rising  bud  regain 

The  freshness  that  my  childhood  knew. 

But  has  thy  soul,  0  maid,  so  long 
Around  this  mournful  relict  dwelt  ? 

Or  burst  away  with  pinion  strong, 
And  at  the  foot  of  Mercy  knelt  ? 

Or  has  it,  in  some  distant  clime, 
With  curious  eye,  unsated,  strayed, 

And,  down  the  winding  stream  of  time, 
On  every  changeful  current  played  ? 

Or,  locked  in  everlasting  sleep, 

Must  we  thy  heart  extinct  deplore, 

Thy  fancy  lost  in  darkness  weep, 
And  sigh  for  her  who  feels  no  more  ? 

Or,  exiled  to  some  humbler  sphere, 
In  yonder  wood-dove  dost  thou  dwell, 

And,  murmuring  in  the  stranger's  ear, 
Thy  tender  melancholy  tell  ? 

Whoe'er  thou  be,  thy  sad  remains 
Shall  from  the  muse  a  tear  demand, 

Who,  wandering  on  these  distant  plains, 
Looks  fondly  to  a  distant  land. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  291 


Song. — Anonymous. 

A  pale  weeping-willow  stands  yonder  alone, 

And  mournfully  waves  in  the  Zephyr's  light  breath ; 

Beneath,  in  its  shadows,  is  sculptured  a  stone, 

That  tells  of  the  maiden  who  sleeps  there  in  death. 

She  came  to  the  village, — a  stranger  unknown, — 
Though  fair  as  the  first  flower  that  opens  in  May ; 

The  touches  of  health  from  her  features  had  flown, 
And  she  drooped  like  that  flower  in  its  time  of  decay. 

She  told  not  her  story,  she  spoke  not  of  sorrow, 

But  laid  herself  down,  and,  heart-broken,  she  sighed; 

And,  ere  the  hills  blushed  in  the  dawn  of  the  morrow, 
Uncomplaining  and  silent,  the  sweet  stranger  died. 

Apart  and  alone,  the  sad  villagers  made 

A  cold,  quiet  tomb  in  the  heart  of  the  vale  ; 

And  many  a  stranger  has  wept  in  the  shade 
Of  yon  weeping-willow,  to  hear  of  the  tale. 


The  Life  of  the  Blessed. — Bryant. 

From  the  Spanish  of  Luis  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Alma  region  luciente, 

Prado  de  bien  andanza,  que  ni  al  hielo,  &c. 

Region  of  life  and  light! 

Land  of  the  good,  whose  earthly  toils  are  o'er ! 

Nor  jrost,  nor  heat,  may  blight 

Thy  vernal  beauty  ;  fertile  shore, 

Yielding  thy  blessed  fruits  for  evermore  ! 

There,  without  crook  or  sling, 

Walks  the  good  Shepherd ;  blossoms  white  and  red 

Round  his  meek  temples  cling ; 

And,  to  sweet  pastures  led, 

His  own  loved  flock  beneath  his  eye  are  fed. 

He  guides,  and  near  him  they 

Follow  delighted ;  for  he  makes  them  go 


292  COMMON-PLACE    EOOX    OF    POETRY. 

Where  dwells  eternal  May, 

And  heavenly  roses  blow, 

Deathless,  and  gathered  but  again  to  grow. 

He  leads  them  to  the  height 

Named  of  the  infinite  and  long  sought  Good, 

And  fountains  of  delight ; — 

And  where  his  feet  have  stood 

Springs  up,  along  the  way,  their  tender  food. 

And  when,  in  the  mid  skies, 

The  climbing  sun  has  reached  his  highest  bound, 

Reposing  as  he  lies, 

With  all  his  flock  around, 

He  witches  the  still  air  with  modulated  sound. 

From  his  sweet  lute  flow  forth 

Immortal  harmonies  of  power  to  still 

All  passions  born  of  earth, 

And  draw  the  ardenf  will 

Its  destiny  of  goodness  to  fulfil. 

Might  but  a  little  part, 

A  wandering  breath  of  that  high  melody, 

Descend  into  my  heart, 

And  change  it,  till  it  be 

Transformed  and  swallowed  up,  O  love,  in  thee ; 

Ah,  then  my  soul  should  know, 

Beloved,  where  thou  liest  at  noon  of  day, 

And,  from  this  place  of  wo 

Released,  should  take  its  way 

To  mingle  with  thy  flock,  and  never  stray. 


The  Sunday  School. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Group  after  group  are  gathering.     Such  as  pressed 
Once  to  their  Savior's  arms,  and  gently  laid 

Their  cherub  heads  upon  his  shielding  breast, 

Though  sterner  souls  the  fond  approach  forbade, — 

Group  after  group  glide  on  with  noiseless  tread, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  293 

And  round  Jehovah's  sacred  altar  meet, 
Where  holy  thoughts  in  infant  hearts  are  bred, 

And  holy  words  their  ruby  lips  repeat, 
Oft  with  a  chastened  glance,  in  modulation  sweet. 

Yet  some  there  are,  upon  whose  childish  brows 

Wan  poverty  hath  done  the  work  of  care. 
Look  up,  ye  sad  ones ! — 'tis  your  Father's  house, 

Beneath  whose  consecrated  dome  you  are ; 
More  gorgeous  robes  ye  see,  and  trappings  rare, 

And  watch  the  gaudier  forms  that  gayly  move, 
And  deem,  perchance,  mistaken  as  you  are, 

The  "  coat  of  many  colors"  proves  His  love, 
Whose  sign  is  in  the  hearty  and  whose  reward  above. 

And  ye,  blessed  laborers  in  this  humble  sphere, 

To  deeds  of  saintlike  charity  inclined, 
Who,  from  your  cells  of  meditation  dear, 

Come  forth  to  gird  the  weak,  untutored  mind, — 
Yet  ask  no  payment,  save  one  smile  refined 

Of  grateful  love, — one  tear  of  contrite  pain, — 
Meekly  ye  forfeit  to  your  mission  kind 

The  rest  of  earthly  Sabbaths. — Be  your  gain 
A  Sabbath  without  end,  mid  yon  celestial  plain. 


E  They  went  out  into  the  Mount  of  Olives." — J.  Pierpont. 

There's  something  sweet  in  scenes  of  gloom 

To  hearts  of  joy  bereft, 
When  hope  has  withered  in  its  bloom, 
When  friends  are  going  \o  the  tomb, 

Or  in  the  tomb  are  left. 

'Tis  night — a  lovely  night ; — and,  lo  ! 

Like  men  in  vision  seen, 
The  Savior  and  his  brethren  go, 
Silent,  and  sorrowful,  and  slow, — 

Led  by  heaven's  lamp  serene, — 

From  Salem's  height,  o'er  Kedron's  stream, 

To  Olivet's  dark  steep, 
There,  o'er  past  joys,  gone  like  a  dream, 
O'er  future  woes,  that  present  seem, 

In  solitude  to  weep. 


294  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  POETRY. 

Heaven  on  their  earthly  hopes  has  frowned  ; 

Their  dream  of  thrones  has  fled  ; 
The  table,  that  his  love  has  crowned, 
They  ne'er  again  shall  gather  round, 

"With  Jesus  at  their  head. 

Blast  not,  0  God,  this  hope  of  ours, 

The  hope  of  sins  forgiven ; — 
Then,  when  our  friends  the  grave  devours, 
When  all  the  world  around  us  lowers, 

We'll  look  from  earth  to  heaven. 


The  Lily. — J.  G.  Percivajl.  . 

I  had  found  out  a  sweet  green  spot, 

Where  a  lily  was  blooming  fair ; 
The  din  of  the  city  disturbed  it  not, 
But  the  spirit,  3:hat  shades  the  quiet  cot 

With  its  wings  of  love,  was  there. 

I  found  that  lily's  bloom 
When  the  day  was  dark  and  chill  : 

It  smiled,  like  a' star  in  the  misty  gloom,    - 
And  it  sent  abroad  a  soft  perfume, 
Which  is  floating  around  me  still. 

I  sat  by  the  lily's  bell, 

And  watched  it  many  a  day  : — 

The  leaves,  that  rose  in  a  flowing  swell,    - 
Grew  faint  and  dim,  then  drooped  and  fell, 

And  the  flower  had  flown  away. 

I  looked  where  the  leaves  were  laid, 

In  withering  paleness,  by, 

And,  as  gloomy  thoughts  stole  on  me,  said, 
There  is  many  a  sweet  and  blooming  maid, 

Who  will  soon  as  dimly  die. 


The  Last  Evening  before  Eternity.— Hillhouse. 

By  this,  the  sun  his  westering  car  drove  low  : 
Round  his  broad  wheel  full  many  a  lucid  cloud 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  295 

Floated,  like  happy  isles,  in  seas  of  gold  : 

Along  the  horizon  castled  shapes  were  piled, 

Turrets  and  towers,  whose  fronts,  embattled,  gleamed 

With  yellow  light:  sinit  by  the  slanting  ray, 

A  ruddy  beam  the  canopy  rellected ; 

With  deeper  light  the  ruby  blushed ;  and  thick 

Upon  the  seraphs'  wings  the  glowing  spots 

Seemed  drops  of  fire.     Uncoiling  from  its  staff, 

With  fainter  wave,  the  gorgeous  ensign  hung, 

Or,  swelling  with  the  swelling  breeze,  by  fits 

Cast  off,  upon  the  dewy  air,  huge  flakes 

Of  golden  lustre.     Over  all  the  hill, 

The  heavenly  legions,  the  assembled  world, 

Evening  her  crimson  tint  forever  drew. 


Round  I  gazed, 
Where,  in  the  purple  west,  no  more  to  dawn, 
Faded  the  glories  of  the  dying  day. 
Mild  twinkling  through  a  crimson-skirted  cloud 
The  solitary  star  of  evening  shone. 
While  gazing  wistful  on  that  peerless  light, 
Thereafter  to  be  seen  no  more,  (as,  oft 
In  dreams,  strange  images  will  mix,)  sad  thoughts 
Passed  o'er  my  soul.     Sorrowing,  I  cried,  Farewell, 
Pale,  beauteous  planet,  that  display 'st  so  soft, 
Amid  yon  glowing  streak,  thy  transient  beam, 
A  long,  a  last  farewell !     Seasons  have  changed, 
Ages  and  empires  rolled,  like  smoke,  away ; 
But  thou,  unaltered,  beam'st  as  silver  fair 
As  on  thy  birthnight.     Bright  and  watchful  eyes, 
From  palaces  and  bowers,  have  hailed  thy  gem 
With  secret  transport.     Natal  star  of  love, 
And  souls  that  love  the  shadowy  hour  of  fancy, 
How  much  I  owe  thee,  how  I  bless  thy  ray ! 
How  oft  thy  rising  o'er  the  hamlet  green, 
Signal  of  rest,  and  social  converse  sweet, 
Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree,  has  cheered 
The  peasant's  heart,  and  drawn  his  benison ! 


296  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Wyoming. — F.  G.  Halleck. 

M  Ditea  si  la  Nature  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour  une 
Claire,  et  pour  un  St.  Preux,  mais  ne  les  y  cherchez  pas." 

Thou  com'st,  in  beauty,  on  my  gaze  at  last, 
"  On  Susquehannah's  side,  fair  Wyoming  !" 
Image  of  many  a  dream,  in  hours  long  past, 
When  life  was  in  its  bud  and  blossoming, 
And  waters,  gushing  from  the  fountain  spring 
Of  pure  enthusiast  thought,  dimmed  my  young  eyes, 
As  by  the  poet  borne,  on  unseen  wing, 
I  breathed,  in  fancy,  'neath  thy  cloudless  skies, 
The  Summer's  air,  and  heard  her  echoed  harmonies. 

I  then  but  dreamed  :  thou  art  before  me  now,. 
In  life,  a  vision  of  the  brain  no  more. 
I've  stood  upon  the^ wooded  mountain's  brow, 
That  beetles  high  thy  lovely  valley  o'er  ; 
And  now,  where  winds  thy  river's  greenest  shore, 
Within  a  bower  of  sycamores  am  laid  ; 
And  winds,  as  soft  and  sweet  as  ever  bore 
The  fragrance  of  wild  flowers  through  sun  and, shade, 
Are  singing  in  the  trees,  whose  low  boughs  press  my  head. 

Nature  hath  made  thee  lovelier  than  the  power 
Even  of  Campbell's  pen  hath  pictured  :  he 
Had  woven,  had  he  gazed  one  sunny  hour 
Upon  thy  smiling  vale,  its  scenery 
With  more  of  truth,  and  made  each  rock  and  tree 
Known  like  old  friends,  and  greeted  from  afar  : 
And  there  are  tales  of  sad  reality, 
In  the  dark  legends  of  thy  border  war, 
With  woes  of  deeper  tint  than  his  own  Gertrude's  are. 

But  where  are  they,  the  beings  of  the  mind, 
The  bard's  creations,  moulded  not  of  clay, 
Hearts  to  strange  bliss  and  suffering  assigned — 
Young  Gertrude,  Albert,  Waldegrave — where  are  they  ? 
We  need  not  ask.     The  people  of  to-day 
Appear  good,  honest,  quiet  men  enough, 
And  hospitable  too — for  ready  pay, — 
With  manners,  like  their  roads,  a  little  rough, 
And  hands  whose  grasp  is  warm  and  welcoming,  tho'  tough. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  297 

Judge  Hallenbach,  who  keeps  the  toll-bridge  gate, 
And  the  town  records,  is  the  Albert  now 
Of  Wyoming ;  like  him,  in  church  and  state, 
Her  Doric  column ;  and  upon  his  brow 
The  thin  hairs,  white  with  seventy  winters'  snow, 
Look  patriarchal.     Walde grave  'twere  in  vain 
To  point  out  here,  unless  in  yon  scare-crow, 
That  stands  full-uniformed  upon  the  plain, 
To  frighten  flocks  of  crows  and  blackbirds  from  the  grain. 

For  he  would  look  particularly  droll 
In  his  "  Iberian  boot"  and  "  Spanish  plume," 
And  be  the  wonder  ot  each  Christian  soul, 
As  of  the  birds  that  scare-crow  and  his  broom. 
But  Gertrude,  in  her  loveliness  and  bloom, 
Hath  many  a  model  here  ;  for  woman's  eye, 
In  court  or  cottage,  wheresoe'er  her  home, 
Hath  a  heart-spell  too  holy  and  too  high 
To  be  o'er-praised  even  by  her  worshipper — Poesy. 

There's  one  in  the  next  field — of  sweet  sixteen — 
Singing  and  summoning  thoughts  of  beauty  born 
In  heaven — with  her  jacket  of  light  green, 
"  Love-darting  eyes,  and  tresses  like  the  morn," 
Without  a  shoe  or  stocking, — hoeing  corn. 
Whether,  like  Gertrude,  she  oft  wanders  there, 
With  Shakspeare's  volume  in  her  bosom  borne, 
I  think  is  doubtful.     Of  the  poet-player 
The  maiden  knows  no  more  than  Cobbett  or  Voltaire. 

There  is  a  woman,  widowed,  gray,  and  old, 
Who  tells  you  where  the  foot  of  Battle  stepped 
Upon  their  day  of  massacre.     She  told 
Its  tale,  and  pointed  to  the  spot,  and  wept, 
Whereon  her  father  and  five  brothers  slept 
Shroudless,  the  bright-dreamed  slumbers  of  the  brave, 
When  all  the  land  a  funeral  mourning  kept. 
And  there,  wild  laurels,  planted  on  the  grave, 
By  Nature's  hand,  in  air  their  pale  red  blossoms  wave. 

And  on  the  margin  of  yon  orchard  hill 

Are  marks  where  time-worn  battlements  have  been  ; 

And  in  the  tall  grass  traces  linger  still 

Of"  arrowy  frieze  and  wedged  ravelin." 

Five  hundred  of  her  brave  that  Valley  green 


298  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Trod  on  the  morn  in  soldier-spirit  gay  ; 
But  twenty  lived  to  tell  the  noon-day  scene — 
And  where  are  now  the  twenty  ?  Passed  away. 
Has  Death  no  triumph-hours,  save  on  the  battle  day  ? 


Sonnet  to . — Bryaxt. 

Ay,  thou  art  for  the  grave  ;  thy  glances  shine 

Too  brightly  to  shine  long ;  another  Spring 
Shall  deck  her  for  men's  eyes,  but  not  for  thine, 

Sealed  in  a  sleep  which  knows  no  wakening. 
The  fields  for  thee  have  no  medicinal  leaf, 

Nor  the  vexed  ore  a  mineral  of  power, 
And  they  who  love  thee  wait  in  anxious  grief 

Till  the  slow  plague  shall  bring  the  fatal  hour. 
Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then ;  Death  should  come 

Gently  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 
As  light  winds,  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom, 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree. 
Close  thy  sweet  eyes  calmly,  and  without  pain ; 
And  we  will  trust  in  God  to  see  thee  yet  again. 


Daybreak. — Richard  H.  Dana. 

"  The  Pilgrim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose  window  open 
ed  towards  the  sun-rising  ;  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace ;  where  he 
slept  till  break  of  day,  and  then  he  awoke  and  sang." — 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

Now,  brighter  than  the  host,  that,  all  night  long, 
In  fiery  armor,  up  the  heavens  high 
Stood  watch,  thou  com'st  to  wait  the  morning's  song. 
Thou  com'st  to  tell  me  day  again  is  nigh. 
Star  of  the  dawning,  cheerfuHs  thine  eye; 
And  yet  in  the  broad  day  it  must  grow  dim. 
Thou  seem'st  to  look  on  me  as  asking  why 
My  mourning  eyes  with  silent  tears  do  swim ; 
Thou  bid'st  me  turn  to  God,  and  seek  my  rest  in  Him. 

"  Canst  thou  grow  sad,"  thou  say'st, "  as  earth  grows  bright  ? 
And  sigh,  when  little  birds  begin  discourse 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  299 

In  quick,  low  voices,  e'er  the  streaming  light 
Pours  on  their  nests,  as  sprung  from  day's  fresh  source  I 
With  creatures  innocent  thou  must,  perforce, 
A  sharer  be,  if  that  thine  heart  be  pure. 
And  holy  hour  like  this,  save  sharp  remorse, 
Of  ills  and  pains  of  life  must  be  the  cure, 
And  breathe  in  kindred  calm,  and  teach  thee  to  endure." 

I  feel  its  calm.     But  there's  a  sombrous  hue 
Along  that  eastern  cloud  of  deep,  dull  red ; 
Nor  glitters  yet  the  cold  and  heavy  dew  ; 
And  all  the  woods  and  hill-tops  stand  outspread 
With  dusky  lights,  which  warmth  nor  comfort  shed. 
Still — save  the  bird  that  scarcely  lifts  its  song — 
The  vast  world  seems  the  tomb  of  all  the  dead— 
The  silent  city  emptied  of  its  throng, 
And  ended,  all  alike,  grief,  mirth,  love,  hate,  and  wrong. 

But  wrong,  and  hate,  and  love,  and  grief,  and  mirth 
Will  quicken  soon  ;  and  hard,  hot  toil  and  strife, 
With  headlong  purpose,  shake  this  sleeping  earth 
With  discord  strange,  and  all  that  man  calls  life. 
With  thousand  scattered  beauties  nature's  rife  ; 
And  airs,  and  woods,  and  streams,  breathe  harmonies  : — 
Man  weds  not  these,  but  taketh  art  to  wife  ; 
Nor  binds  his  heart  with  soft  and  kindly  ties : 
He,  feverish,  blinded,  lives,  and,  feverish,  sated,  dies. 

And  'tis  because  man  useth  so  amiss 
Her  dearest  blessings,  Nature  seemeth  sad  ; 
Else  why  should  she,  in  such  fresh  hour  as  this, 
Not  lift  the  veil,  in  revelation  glad, 
From  her  fair  face  ? — It  is  that  man  is  mad ! 
Then  chide  me  not,  clear  star,  that  I  repine, 
When  Nature  grieves  ;  nor  deem  this  heart  is  bad. 
Thou  look'st  towards  earth  ;  but  yet  the  heavens  are  thine  ; 
While  I  to  earth  am  bound : — When  will  the  heavens  be  mine  ? 

If  man  would  but  his  finer  nature  le?j-n, 

And  not  in  life  fantastic  lose  the  sense 

Of  simpler  things;  could  Nature's  features  stern 

Teach  him  be  thoughtful ;  then,  with  soul  intense, 

I  should  not  yearn  for  God  to  take  me  hence, 

But  bear  my  lot,  albeit  in  spirit  bowed, 

Remembering,  humbly,  why  it  is,  and  whence  : 


300  COMMON-PLACE    IJOOK    OF    POETRY. 

But  when  I  see  cold  man  of  reason  proud, 
My  solitude  is  sad — I'm  lonely  in  the  crowd. 

But  not  for  this  alone,  the  silent  tear 
Steals  to  mine  eyes,  while  looking  on  the  morn, 
Nor  for  this  solemn  hour : — fresh  life  is  near, — 
But  all  my  joys! — they  died  when  newly  born. 
Thousands  will  wake  to  joy;  while  I,  forlorn, 
And  like  the  stricken  deer,  with  sickly  eye, 
Shall  see  them  pass.     Breathe  calm — my  spirit's  torn  ; 
Ye  holy  thoughts,  lift  up  my  soul  on  high ! — 
Ye  hopes  of  things  unseen,  the  far-off  world  bring  nigh. 

And  when  I  grieve,  O,  rather  let  it  be 
That  I — whom  Nature  taught  to  sit  with  her 
On  her  proud  mountains,  by  her  rolling  sea — 
Who,  when  the  winds  are  up,  with  mighty  stir 
Of  woods  and  waters,  feel  the  quickening  spur 
To  my  strong  spirit ; — 'who,  as  mine  own  child, 
Do  love  the  flower,  and  in  the  ragged  bur 
A  beauty  see — that  I  this  mother  mild 
Should  leave,  and  go  with  Care,  and  passions  fierce  and  wild  ! 

How  suddenly  that  straight  and  glittering  shaft 
Shot  'thwart  the  earth  ! — in  crown  of  living  fire 
Up  comes  the  Day  ! — as  if  they  conscious  quaffed 
The  sunny  flood,  hill,  forest,  city,  spire 
Laugh  in  the  wakening  light. — Go,  vain  Desire  ! 
The  dusky  lights  have  gone  ;  go  thou  thy  way ! 
And  pining  Discontent,  like  them,  expire  ! 
Be  called  my  chamber,  Peace,  when  ends  the  day ; 
And  let  me  with  the  dawn,  like  Pilgrim,  sing  and  pray ! 


Sonnet. — Bryant. 

Ay,  thou  art  welcome — heaven's  delicious  breath  ! — 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  South  ! — O,  long  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, — 
Like  to  a  good  old  age,  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 


COMMOX-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  301 

In  such  a  bright  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life,  like  thee,  'mid  bowers  and  brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh  ; 

And,  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 

Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 


Hymn  for  the  Massachusetts  Charitable  Association.- 
Pierpoxt. 


Loud  o'er  thy  savage  child, 

O  God,  the  night  wind  roars, 
As,  houseless,  in  the  wild 
He  bows  him,  and  adores. 
Thou  seest  him  there, 
As  to  the  sky 
He  lifts  his  eye 
Alone  in  prayer. 

Thine  inspiration  comes ! 

In  skill  the  blessing  falls  ! 
The  field  around  him  blooms, 
The  temple  rears  its  walls, 
And  saints  adore, 
And  music  swells, 
Where  savage  yells 
Were  heard  before. 

To  honor  thee,  dread  Power, 

Our  skill  and  strength  combine  ; 
And  temple,  tomb  and  tower 
Attest  these  gifts  of  thine  ; 
A  swelling  dome 
For  Pride  they  gild, 
For  Peace  they  build 
An  humbler  home. 

By  these  our  fathers'  host 

Was  led  to  victory  first, 
When  on  our  guardless  coast 

The  cloud  of  battle  burst. 

26 


302  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Through  storm  and  spray, 
By  these  controlled, 
Our  navies  hold 

Their  thundering  way. 

Great  Source  of  every  art ! 

Our  homes,  our  pictured  halls, 
Our  thronged  and  busy  mart 
That  heaves  its  granite  walls, 
And  shoots  to  heaven 
Its  glittering  spires, 
To  catch  the  fires 
Of  morn  and  even, — 

These,  and  the  breathing  forms 
The  brush  or  chisel  gives, — 
With  this,  when  marble  warms, 
With  that,  when  canvass  lives, — 
These  all  combine, 
In  countless  ways, 
To  swell  thy  praise  ; 
For  all  are  thine ! 


The  little  Beach  Bird. — Richard  H.  Dana 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  ? 
Why  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
O,  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us.     Thy  wail — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  calPst  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad ;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  motion,  and  with  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 
The  Mystery — the  Word. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  303 

Of  thousands  thou,  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean,  art !     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells, 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells — 
Tells  of  man's  wo  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
For  gladness  and  the  light, 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


Address  of  the  Sylph  of  Autumn  to  the  JBard.- 

Washixgton  Allston. 

And  now,  in  accents  deep  and  low, 
Like  voice  of  fondly-cherished  wo, 

The  Sylph  of  Autumn  sad: 
Though  /may  not  of  raptures  sing, 
That  graced  the  gentle  song  of  Spring, 
Like  Summer  playful  pleasures  bring, 

Thy  youthful  heart  to  glad : 

Yet  still  may  I  in  hope  aspire 

Thy  heart  to  touch  with  chaster  fire, 

And  purifying  love  : 
For  I,  with  vision  high  and  holy, 
And  spell  of  quick'ning  melancholy, 
Thy  soul  from  sublunary  folly 

First  raised  to  worlds  above. 

What  though  be  mine  the  treasures  fair 
Of  purple  grape,  and  yellow  pear, 

And  fruits  of  various  hue, 
And  harvests  rich  of  golden  grain, 
That  dance  in  waves  along  the  plain 
To  merry  song  of  reaping  swain, 

Beneath  the  welkin  blue  ; 

With  these  I  may  not  urge  my  suit, 
Of  Summer's  patient  toil  the  fruit, 


304  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

For  mortal  purpose  given ; 
Nor  may  it  fit  my  sober  mood 
To  sing  of  sweetly  murmuring  flood, 
Or  dies  of  many-colored  wood, 

That  mock  the  bow  of  heaven. 

But,  know,  'twas  mine  the  secret  power 
That  waked  thee  at  the  midnight  hour, 

In  bleak  November's  reign : 
'Twas  I  the  spell  around  thee  cast, 
When  thou  didst  hear  the  hollow  blast 
In  murmurs  tell  of  pleasures  past, 

That  ne'er  would  come  again ; — 

And  led  thee,  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
To  hear  the  sullen  ocean  roar, 

By  dreadful  calm  oppressed ; 
Which  still,  though  not  a  breeze  was  there, 
Its  mountain-billows-heaved  in  air, 
As  if  a  living  thing  it  were, 

That  strove  in  vain  for  rest. 

'Twas  I,  when  thou,  subdued  by  wo, 
Didst  watch  the  leaves  descending  slow, 

To  each  a  moral  gave  ; 
And,  as  they  moved,  in  mournful  train, 
With  rustling  sound,  along  the  plain, 
Taught  them  to  sing  a  seraph's  strain 

Of  peace  within  the  grave. 

And  then,  upraised  thy  streaming  eye, 
I  met  thee  in  the  western  sky, 

In  pomp  of  evening  cloud, 
That,  while  with  varying  form  it  rolled, 
Some  wizard's  castle  seemed  of  gold, 
And  now  a  crimsoned  knight  of  old, 

Or  king  in  purple  proud. 

And  last,  as  sunk  the  setting  sun, 
And  Evening,  with  her  shadows  dun, 

The  gorgeous  pageant  passed, 
'Twas  then  of  life  a  mimic  show, 
Of  human  grandeur  here  below, 
Which  thus  beneath  the  fatal  blow 

Of  Death  must  fall  at  last. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  305 

O,  then,  with  what  aspiring  gaze 
Didst  thou  thy  tranced  vision  raise 

To  yonder  orbs  on  high, 
And  think  how  wondrous,  how  sublime 
'Twere  upwards  to  their  spheres  to  climb, 
And  live  beyond  the  reach  of  Time, 

Child  of  Eternity! 


Omnipresence. — Anonymous  . 

There  is  an  unseen  Power  around, 

Existing  in  the  silent  air  : 
Where  treadeth  man,  where  space  is  found, 

Unheard,  unknown,  that  Power  is  there. 

And  not  when  bright  and  busy  day 
Is  round  us  with  its  crowds  and  cares, 

And  not  when  night,  with  solem  sway, 

Bids  awe-hushed  souls  breathe  forth  in  prayers — 

Not  when,  on  sickness'  weary  couch, 

He  writhes  with  pain's  deep,  long-drawn  groan, 

Not  when  his  steps  in  freedom  touch 
The  fresh  green  turf — is  man  alone. 

In  proud  Belshazzar's  gilded  hall, 

'Mid  music,  lights,  and  revelry, 
That  Present  Spirit  looked  on  all, 

From  crouching  slave  to  royalty. 

When  sinks  the  pious  Christian's  soul, 

And  scenes  of  horror  daunt  his  eye, 
He  hears  it  whispered  through  the  air, 

"  A  Power  of  Mercy  still  is  nigh." 

The  Power  that  watches,  guides,  defends, 

Till  man  becomes  a  lifeless  sod, 
Till  earth  is  nought, — nought,  earthly  friends, — 

That  omnipresent  Power — is  God. 

26* 


3015  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  at  the  Consecration  of 
Pulaski's  Banner. — H.  W.  Longfellow. 

The  standard  of  count  Pulaski,  the  noble  Pole  who  fell  in  the  attack 
upon  Savannah,  during  the  American  Revolution,  was  of  crimson  silk, 
embroidered  by  the  Moravian  nuns  of  Bethlehem  in  Pennsylvania. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 

Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head, 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where  before  the  altar  hung 

That  proud  banner,  which,  with  prayer, 

Had  been  consecrated  there  ; 
And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low  in  the  dim  mysterious  aisle. 

Take  thy  banner.     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave, 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  Sabbath  of  our  vale, — 
When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, — 
When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

Take  thy  banner  ; — and,  beneath 
The  war-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it — till  our  homes  are  free — 
Guard  it — God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

Take  thy  banner.     But  when  night 

Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight, 

If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 

Spare  him ; — by  our  holy  vow, 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears, 

By  the  mercy  that  endears, 

Spare  him — he  our  love  hath  shared — 

Spare  him — as  thou  wouldst  be  spared. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  307 

Take  thy  banner ; — and  if  e'er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier's  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet, 
Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee. 

And  the  warrior  took  that  banner  proud, 
And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud. 


The  liaising  ofJairus's  Daughter. — N.  A.  Review. 

They  have  watched  her  last  and  quivering  breath, 

And  the  maiden's  soul  has  flown ; 
They  have  wrapped  her  in  the  robes  of  death, 

And  laid  her,  dark  and  lone. 

But  the  mother  casts  a  look  behind, 

Upon  that  fallen  flower, — 
Nay,  start  not — 'twas  the  gathering  wind ; 

Those  limbs  have  lost  their  power. 

And  tremble  not  at  that  cheek  of  snow, 

O'er  which  the  faint  light  plays  ; 
'Tis  only  the  crimson  curtain's  glow, 

Which  thus  deceives  thy  gaze. 

Didst  thou  not  close  that  expiring  eye, 

And  feel  the  soft  pulse  decay  ? 
And  did  not  thy  lips  receive  the  sigh, 

Which  bore  her  soul  away  ? 

She  lies  on  her  couch,  all  pale  and  hushed, 

And  heeds  not  thy  gentle  tread, 
And  is  still  as  the  spring-flower  by  traveller  crushed, 

Which  dies  on  its  snowy  bed. 

The  mother  has  flown  from  that  lonely  room, 

And  the  maid  is  mute  and  pale ; 
Her  ivory  hand  is  cold  as  the  tomb, 

And  dark  is  her  stiffened  nail. 


308  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Her  mother  strays  with  folded  arms, 

And  her  head  is  bent  in  wo ; 
She  shuts  her  thoughts  to  joy  or  charms ; 

No  tear  attempts  to  flow. 

But  listen !  what  name  salutes  her  ear  ? 

It  comes  to  a  heart  of  stone  ; 
"Jesus,"  she  cries,  "  has  no  power  here  ; 

My  daughter's  life  has  flown." 

He  leads  the  way  to  that  cold  white  couch, 
And  bends  o'er  the  senseless  form  ; 

Can  his  be  less  than  a  heavenly  touch  ? 
The  maiden's  hand  is  warm ! 

And  the  fresh  blood  .comes  with  roseate  hue, 
While  Death's  dark  terrors  fly ; 

Her  form  is  raised,  and  her  step  is  true, 
And  life  beams  bright  in  her  eye. 


Departure  of  the  Pioneer. — Brainard. 

Far  away  from  the  hill-side,  the  lake  and  the  hamlet, 

The  rock  and  the  brook,  and  yon  meadow  so  gay  ;- 
From  the  foot-path,  that  winds  by  the  side  of  the  streamlet ; 

From  his  hut  and  the  grave  of  his  friend  far  away ; 
He  is  gone  where  the  footsteps  of  man  never  ventured, 
Where  the  glooms  of  the  wild  tangled  forest  are  centred, 
Where  no  beam  of  the  sun  or  the  sweet  moon  has  entered, 
No  blood-hound  has  roused  up  the  deer  with  his  bay. 

He  has  left  the  green  valley  for  paths  where  the  bison 
Roams  through  the  prairies,  or  leaps  o'er  the  flood ; 

Where  the  snake  in  the  swamp  sucks  the  deadliest  poison, 
And  the  cat  of  the  mountains  keeps  watch  for  its  food. 

But  the  leaf  shall  be  greener,  the  sky  shall  be  purer, 

The  eyes  shall  be  clearer,  the  rifle  be  surer, 

And  stronger  the  arm  of  the  fearless  endurer, 

That  trusts  nought  but  Heaven  in  his  way  through  the  wood. 

Light  be  the  heart  of  the  poor  lonely  wanderer, 
Firm  be  his  step  through  each  wearisome  mile, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  309 

Far  from  the  cruel  man,  far  from  the  plunderer, 
Far  from  the  track  of  the  mean  and  the  vile. 

And  when  death,  with  the  last  of  its  terrors,  assails  him, 

And  all  but  the  last  throb  of  memory  fails  him, 

He'll  think  of  the  friend,  far  away,  that  bewails  him, 
And  light  up  the  cold  touch  of  death  with  a  smile. 

And  there  shall  the  dew  shed  its  sweetness  and  lustre, 

There  for  his  pall  shall  the  oak  leaves  be  spread ; 
The  sweet  brier  shall  bloom,  and  the  wild  grape  shall  cluster, 

And  o'er  him  the  leaves  of  the  ivy  be  shed. 
There  shall  they  mix  with  the  fern  and  the  heather, 
There  shall  the  young  eagle  shed  its  first  feather, 
The  wolves  with  his  wild  dogs  shall  lie  there  together, 
And  moan  o'er  the  spot  where  the  hunter  is  laid. 


The  Alpine  Flowers. — Mrs.  Sigourney.* 

Meek  dwellers  mid  yon  terror-stricken  cliffs ! 
With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense-breathing  lips, 
Whence  are  ye  ? — Did  some  white- winged  messenger 
On  Mercy's  missions  trust  j-our  timid  germ 
To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows  ? 
Or,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
Bid  them  with  tear-drops  nurse  ye  ? — 

— Tree  nor  shrub 
Dare  that  drear  atmosphere  ;  no  polar  pine 
Uprears  a  veteran  front ;  yet  there  ye  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick-ribbed  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  brilliant  eyes  to  Him 
Who  bids  you  bloom  unblanched  amid  the  waste 
Of  desolation.     Man,  who,  panting,  toils 
O'er  slippery  steeps,  or,  trembling,  treads  the  verge 
Of  yawning  gulfs,  o'er  which  the  headlong  plunge 
Is  to  eternity,  looks  shuddering  up, 
And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  loveliness — 
Fearless,  yet  frail — and,  clasping  his  chill  hands, 
Blesses  your  pencilled  beauty.     'Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain  summits  rushing  on  the  sky, 

*This  piece  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  poetry.  It  is  in 
some  respects  so  sublime,  that  it  forcibly  reminds  us  of  Coleridge's  Hymn 
Vjfore  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouny. — Ed. 


310  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  chaining  the  rapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  you  drooping  to  his  breast, 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost- winged  gale, 
And  freer  dreams  of  heaven. 


A  Child's  first  Impression  of  a  Star. — N.  P.  Willis. 

She  had  been  told  that  God  made  all  the  stars 
That  twinkled  up  in  heaven,  and  now  she  stood 
Watching  the  coming  of  the  twilight  on, 
As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 
And  this  were  its  first  eve.     How  beautiful 
Must  be  the  work  of  Nature  to  a  child 
In  its  first  fresh  impression!     Laura  -stood 
By  the  low  window,  with  the  silken  lash 
Of  her  soft  eye  upraised^  and  her  sweet  mouth 
Half  parted  with  the  new  and  strange  delight 
Of  beauty  that  she  could  not  comprehend, 
And  had  not  seen  before.     The  purple  folds 
Of  the  low  sunset  clouds,  .and  the  blue  sky 
That  looked  so  still  and  delicate  above, 
Filled  her  young  heart  with  gladness,  and  the  eve 
Stole  on  with  its  deep  shadows,  and  she  still 
Stood  looking  at  the  west  with  that  half  smile, 
As  if  a  pleasant  thought  were  at  her  heart. 
Presently,  in  the  edge  of  the  last  tint 
Of  sunset,  where  the  blue  was  melted  in 
To  the  faint  golden  mellowness,  a  star 
Stood  suddenly.     A  laugh  of  wild  delight 
Burst  from  her  lips,  and,  putting  up  her  hands, 
Her  simple  thought  broke  forth  expressively — 
"  Father,  dear  father,  God  has  made  a  star !" 


The  Leper.— N.  P.  Willis. 

"  Room  for  the  leper!  Room!"  And,  as  he  came, 

The  cry  passed  on — "  Room  for  the  leper !  Room !,: 

Sunrise  was  slanting  on  the  city  gates 

Rosy  and  beautiful,  and  from  the  hills 

The  early  risen  poor  were  coming  in, 

Duly  and  cheerfully,  to  their  toil,  and  up 

Rose  the  sharp  hammer's  clink,  and  the  far  hum 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  311 

Of  moving  wheels  and  multitudes  astir, 
And  all  that  in  a  city  murmur  swells, 
Unheard  but  by  the  watcher's  weary  ear, 
Aching  with  night's  dull  silence,  or  the  sick 
Hailing  the  welcome  light,  and  sounds  that  chase 
The  death-like  images  of  the  dark  away. 

"  Room  for  the  leper  !"     And  aside  they  stood, 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood — all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way — and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow, 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying  "  Unclean  ! — Unclean  !" 

'Twas  now  the  depth 
Of  the  Judean  summer,  and  the  leaves, 
Whose  shadows  lay  so  still  upon  his  path, 
Had  budded  on  the  clear  and  flashing  eye 
Of  Judah's.  loftiest  noble.     He  was  young, 
And  eminently  beautiful,  and  life 
Mantled  in  eloquent  fulness  on  his  lip, 
And  sparkled  in  his  glance  ;  and  in  his  mien 
There  was  a  gracious  pride  that  every  eye  * 

Followed  with  benisons — and  this  was  he  ! 
With  the  soft  airs  of  summer  there  had  come 
A  torpor  on  his  frame,  which  not  the  speed 
Of  his  best  barb,  nor  music,  nor  the  blast 
Of  the  bold  huntsman's  horn,  nor  aught  that  stirs 
The  spirit  to  its  bent,  might  drive  away. 
The  blood  beat  not  as  wont  within  his  veins  ; 
Dimness  crept  o'er  his  eye  ;  a  drowsy  sloth 
Fettered  his  limbs  like  palsy,  and  his  port, 
With  all  its  loftiness,  seemed  struck  with  eld. 
Even  his  voice  was  changed — a  languid  moan 
Taking  the  place  of  the  clear,  silver  key; 
And  brain  and  sense  grew  faint,  as  if  the  light, 
And  very  air,  were  steeped  in  sluggishness. 
He  strove  with  it  awhile,  as  manhood  will, 
Ever  too  proud  for  weakness,  till  the  rein 
Slackened  within  his  grasp,  and  in  its  poise 
The  arrowy  jereed  like  an  aspen  shook. 


312  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Day  after  day  he  lay  as  if  in  sleep. 
His  skin  grew  dry  and  bloodless,  and  white  scales, 
Circled  with  livid  purple,  covered  him. 
And  then  his  nails  grew  black,  and  fell  away 
From  the  dull  flesh  about  them,  and  the  hues 
Deepened  beneath  the  hard,  unmoistened  scales, 
And  from  their  edges  grew  the  rank  white  hair, 
— And  Helon  was  a  leper ! 

Day  was  breaking 
When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.     The  incense  lamp 
Burned  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
Swelled  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof 
Like  an  articulate  wail ;  and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Struggling  with  weakness,  and  bowed  down  his  head 
Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb, 
And,  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip     ' 
Hid  in  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom  : — 

Depart !  depart,  0  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God; 
For  He  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod, 

And  to  the  desert  wild, 
From  all  thou  lov'st,  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  His  people  may  be  free. 

Depart !  and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more  ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er, 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 
Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way ;  and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide  ; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide ; 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink, 
By  desert  well,  or  river's  grassy  brink. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  313 

And  pass  not  thou  between 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  breeze, 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 

Where  human  tracks  are  seen ; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain, 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain. 

And  now  depart !  and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men, 
Selected  thee  to  feel  his  chastening  rod. 
Depart,  0  leper !  and  forget  not  God  ! 

And  he  went  forth — alone  ;  not  one,  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comiort  unto  him.     Yea,  he  went  his  way, 
Sick  and  heart-broken,  and  alone,  to  die  ; — 
For  God  hath  cursed  the  leper ! 

It  was  noon, 
And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips, 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blessed — to  die  ! 
Footsteps  approached,  and,  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip, 
Crying  "Unclean!  Unclean!"  and,  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth,  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  stranger  came,  and,  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name. 
— "  Helon!" — the  voice  was  like  the  master-tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument — most  strangely  sweet ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
u  Helon,  arise  !"  and  he  forgot  his  curse, 
And  rose,  and  stood  before  him. 

Love  and  awe 
Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Helon's  eye 
27 


314  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

As  he  beheld  the  stranger.     He  was  not 

In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 

The  symbol  of  a  princely  lineage  wore  ; 

No  followers  at  his  back,  nor  in  his  hand 

Buckler,  or  sword,  or  spear ; — yet  in  his  mien 

Command  sat  throned  serene,  and,  if  he  smiled, 

A  kingly  condescension  graced  his  lips, 

The  lion  would  have  crouched  to  in  his  lair. 

His  garb  was  simple,  and  his  sandals  worn; 

His  stature  modelled  with  a  perfect  grace  ; 

His  countenance,  the  impress  of  a  God, 

Touched  with  the  open  innocence  of  a  child  ; 

His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 

In  the  serenest  noon ;  his  hair,  unshorn, 

Fell  to  his  shoulders ;  and  his  curling  beard 

The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 

He  looked  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 

As  if  his  heart  was  moved,  and,  stooping  down, 

He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand, 

And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  "  Be  clean !" 

And,  lo!  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood    , 

Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins, 

And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 

The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 

His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 

Prostrate  at  Jesus's  feet,  and  worshipped  him. 


Versification  of  the  Beginning  of  the  Last  Book  of  the 
Martyrs. — Alexander  H.  Everett. 

Sweet  muse,  that  on  my  venturous  voyage  smiled, 
And  kindly  cheered  the  dangerous,  doubtful  way, 
No  more,  with  dreams  of  youth  and  hope  beguiled, 
I  tempt  thee  from  thy  heavenly  seats  to  stray. 
Soon  shall  my  lyre  its  feeble  descant  close, 
And  sad  its  parting  strain — a  funeral  song ; 
Nor  needs  a  Frenchman  aid  for  themes  like  those  ; 
Spontaneous  rise  the  notes  his  lyre  along, 
And  all  he  sings  he  feels,  inured  to  grief  and  wrong. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  indulge  this  parting  lay, 
And  then  for  age  thy  service  I  forego. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  315 

I  leave  the  dreams  that  charmed  my  earlier  day, 
And  all  the  heaven  that  youthful  poets  know  ; 
For  youth  is  fled;  and  thou  mayst  not  remain, 
To  'sort  with  furrowed  brow  and  silver  hairs ; 
Yet  sure  to  lose  thee  gives  me  mickle  pain ; 
Thy  hand  alone  the  balm  of  life  prepares, 
The  only  zest  for  joy,  the  only  cure  for  cares. 

O,  yes ;  perforce  the  parting  tear  will  flow  ; — 
So  old  a  friend,  that  loved  me  yet  a  child, 
Teaching  my  step  the  ocean  path  to  know, 
And  my  young  voice  to  sing  the  tempest  mild. 
I  wooed  thee  oft  in  western  wood  afar, 
Where  stranger  foot  had  never  trod  before, 
By  twilight  dim,  or  light  of  evening  star, 
Listening  remote  to  Niagara's  roar ; 
And  Nature's  self,  and  thou,  didst  inspiration  pour. 

Guide  and  companion  of  my  wandering  way, 
What  various  lands  our  voyage  since  hath  seen, 
From  plains  where  Tiber's  glorious  waters  play, 
To  distant  Morven's  misty  summits  green. 
How  loath  to  leave  the  spot  we  lingered  near, 
Athena's  walls  and  grove  of  Academe  ! 
How,  pilgrim  like,  we  saw,  with  hallowed  fear, 
Afar  the  Holy  City's  turrets  gleam, 
And  prayed  on  Zion's  mount,  and  drank  of  Jordan's  stream ! 

Then  fare  thee  well !  but  not  with  thee  depart 
The  loftiness  of  soul  that  thou  hast  given  ; 
Once  to  have  known  thee  shall  exalt  my  heart, 
When  thou,  celestial  guest,  art  fled  to  heaven. 
Then  what,  though  Time  may  wither  Fancy's  bloom, 
And  change  her  voice  to  dissonance  uncouth  ? 
Thy  nobler  gifts  receive  a  nobler  doom, 
And  live  and  flourish  in  eternal  youth — 
The  firm,  unbending  mind,  the  consciousness  of  truth. 


Autumn. — Anonymous. 

Sweet  Sabbath  of  the  year, 
While  evening  lights  decay, 


316  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Thy  parting  steps  methinks  I  hear 
Steal  from  the  world  away. 

Amid  thy  silent  flowers 

'Tis  sad,  but  sweet,  to  dwell, 

Where  falling  leaves  and  drooping  flowers 
Around  me  breathe  farewell. 

Along  thy  sunset  skies 

Their  glories  melt  in  shade, 

And,  like  the  things  we  fondly  prize, 
Seem  lovelier  as  they  fade, 

A  deep  and  crimson  streak 

Thy  dying  leaves  disclose  ; 
As,  on  Consumption's  waning  cheek, 

'Mid  ruin,  blooms  the  rose. 

Thy  scene  each  vision  brings 

Of  beauty  in  decay  ; 
Of  fair  and  early  faded  things, 

Too  exquisite  to  stay ; — 

Of  joys  that  come  no  more  ; 

Of  flowers  whose  bloom  is  fled ; 
Of  farewells  wept  upon  the  shore  ; 

Of  friends  estranged  or  dead  ; — 

Of  all  that  now  may  seem, 

To  Memory's  tearful  eye, 
The  vanished  beauty  of  a  dream, 

O'er  which  we  gaze  and  sigh. 


The  Treasure  that  waxeth  not  old — D.  Huntingdon. 

O,  I  have  loved,  in  youth's  fair  vernal  morn, 

To  spread  imagination's  wildest  wing, 

The  sober  certainties  of  life  to  scorn, 

And  seek  the  visioned  realms  that  poets  sing — 

Where  Nature  blushes  in  perennial  spring, 

Where  streams  of  earthly  joy  exhaustless  rise, 

Where  Youth  and  Beauty  tread  the  choral  ring 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  317 

And  shout  their  raptures  to  the  cloudless  skies, 
While  every  jovial  hour  on  downy  pinion  flies. 

But,  ah !  those  fairy  scenes  at  once  have  fled, 
Since  stern  Experience  waved  her  iron  wand, 
Broke  the  soft  slumbers  of  my  visioned  head, 
And  bade  me  here  of  perfect  bliss  despond. 
And  oft  have  I  the  painful  lesson  conned, 
When  Disappointment  mocked  my  wooing  heart, 
Still  of  its  own  delusion  weakly  fond, 
And  from  forbidden  pleasures  loath  to  part, 
Though  shrinking  oft  beneath  Correction's  deepest  smart. 

And  is  there  nought  in  mortal  life,  I  cried, 
Can  soothe  the  sorrows  of  the  laboring  breast  ? 
No  kind  recess,  where  baffled  Hope  may  hide, 
And  weary  Nature  lull  her  woes  to  rest  ? 
O  grant  me,  pitying  Heaven,  this  last  request, — 
Since  I  must  every  loftier  wish  resign, — 
Be  my  few  days  with  peace  and  friendship  blessed; 
Nor  will  I  at  my  humble  lot  repine, 
Though  neither  wealth,  nor  fame,  nor  luxury  be  mine. 

O  give  me  yet,  in  some  recluse  abode, 
Encircled  with  a  faithful  few,  to  dwell, 
Where  power  cannot  oppress,  nor  care  corrode, 
Nor  venomed  tongues  the  tale  of  slander  tell ; — 
Or  bear  me  to  some  solitary  cell, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  every  human  eye  ; 
And  let  me  bid  a  long  and  last  farewell 
To  each  alluring  object  'neath  the  sky, 
And  there  in  peace  await  my  hour,  in  peace  to  die. 

"  Ah,  vain  desire  !"  a  still  small  voice  replied ; 
"  No  place,  no  circumstance  can  Peace  impart : — 
She  scorns  the  mansion  of  unvanquished  Pride, 
Sweet  inmate  of  a  pure  and  humble  heart ; — 
Take  then  thy  station — act  thy  proper  part : — 
A  Savior's  mercy  seek, — his  will  perform  : 
His  word  has  balm  for  sin's  envenomed  smart, 
His  love,  diffused,  thy  shuddering  breast  shall  warm; 
His  power  provide  a  shelter  from  the  gathering  storm." 

O  welcome  hiding  place !     O  refuge  meet 
For  fainting  pilgrims,  on  this  desert  way  ! 


318  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

O  kind  Conductor  of  these  wandering  feet, 
Through  snares  and  darkness,  to  the  realms  of  day ! 
Soon  did  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  display 
His  healing  beams  ;  each  gloomy  cloud  dispel : 
While  on  the  parting  mist,  in  colors  gay, 
Truth's  cheering  bow  of  precious  promise  fell, 
And  Mercy's  silver  voice  soft  whispered, — "  All  is  well.1 


Fragment  of  an  Epistle  written  while  recovering  from  severe 
Illness. — Richard  H.  Dana. 

No  more, -my  friend, 
A  wearied  ear  I'll  urge  you  lend 
My  tale  of  sickness.     Aches  I've  borne 
From  closing  day  to  breaking  morn — 
Long  wintry  nights  and  days  of  pain — 
Sharp  pain.     'Tis  past ;  and  I  would  fain 
My  languor  cheer  with  grateful  thought 
On  Him  who  to  this  frame  has  brought 
Soothing  and  rest ;  who,  when  there  rose, 
Within  my  bosom's  dull  repose, 
A  troubled  memory  of  wrong, 
Done  in  health's  day,  when  passions  strong 
Swayed  me, — repentance  spoke  and  peace, 
Hope,  and  from  dark  remorse  release. 

Lonely,  in  thought,  I  travelled  o'er 
Days  past  and  joys  to  come  no  more  ; 
Sat  watching  the  low  beating  fire, 
And  saw  its  flames  shoot  up,  expire 
Like  cheerful  thoughts  that  glance  their  light 
Athwart  the  mind,  and  then  'tis  night. 

For  ever  night  ?— The  Eternal  One, 
With  sacred  fire  from  forth  his  throne, 
Has  touched  my  heart.  0,  fail  it  not 
When  days  of  health  shall  be  my  lot. 

Beside  me,  Patience,  Suffering's  child, 
With  gentle  voice,  and  aspect  mild, 
Sat  chanting  to  me  song  so  holy, 
A  song  to  soothe  my  melancholy ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  319 

Won  me  to  learn  of  her  to  bear 

Sorrows,  and  pains,  and  all  that  wear 

Our  hearts — me — chained  by  sickness — taught, 

"  Prisoner  to  none  the  free  of  thought :" 

A  truth  sublime,  but  slowly  learned 

By  one  who  for  earth's  freshness  yearned. 

From  open  air  and  ample  sky 
Pent  up,  thus  doomed  for  days  to  lie, 
Was  trial  hard  to  me,  a  stranger 
To  long  confinement, — me,  a  ranger 
Through  bare  or  leafy  wood,  o'er  hill, 
O'er  field,  by  shore,  or  by  the  rill 
When  taking  hues  from  bending  flowers, 
Or  stealing  dark  by  crystal  bowers 
Built  up  by  Winter  on  its  bank, 
Of  branches  shot  from  vapor  dank : 
And  hard  to  sit,  and  see  boys  slide 
O'er  crusted  plain  stretched  smooth  and  wide  ; 
Or  down  the  steep  and  shining  drift, 
With  shout  and  call,  shoot  light  and  swift. 

But  I  could  stand  at  set  of  sun, 
And  see  the  snow  he  shone  upon 
Change  to  a  path  of  glory, — see 
The  rainbow  hues  'twixt  him  and  me — 
Orange,  and  green,  and  golden  light : 
I  thought  on  that  celestial  sight, 
That  city  seen  by  aged  John, 
City  with  walls  of  precious  stone. 
Brighter  and  brighter  grew  the  road 
'Twixt  me  and  the  descending  God — 
Methought  I  could  the  path  have  trod. 
Silent  and  slow  the  sun  has  gone, 
And  left  me  on  the  earth  alone. 

And  gone's  his  path,  like  the  steps  of  light 
By  angels  trod  at  dead  of  night, 
While  Jacob  slept.     Around  my  room 
The  shadows  deepen ;  while  the  gloom 
Visits  my  soul,  in  converse  high 
Lifted  but  now,  when  heaven  was  nigh. 

Why  could  not  I,  in  spirit,  raise 
Pillar  of  Bethel  to  his  praise 


320  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Who  blessed  me,  and  free  worship  pay, 
Like  Isaac's  son  upon  his  way  ? 
Are  holy  thoughts  but  happy  dreams 
Chased  by  despair,  as  starry  gleams 
By  clouds  ? — Nay,  turn,  and  read  thy  mind ; 
Nay,  look  on  Nature's  face  ;  thou'lt  find 
Kind,  gentle  graces,  thoughts  to  raise 
The  tired  spirit — hope  and  praise. 

0,  kind  to  me,  in  darkest  hour 
She  led  me  forth  with  gentle  power, 
From  lonely  thought,  from  sad  unrest, 
To  peace  of  mind,  and  to  her  breast 
The  son,  who  always  loved  her,  pressed ; 
Called  up  the  moon  to  cheer  me  ;  laid 
Its  silver  light  on  bank  and  glade, 
And  bade  it  throw  mysterious  beams 
O'er  ice-clad  hill — which  steely  gleams 
Sent  back — a  knight  who  took  his  rest, 
His  burnished  shield  above  his  breast. 
The  fence  of  long,  rough  rails,  that  went 
O'er  trackless  snows,  a  beauty  lent : 
Glittered  each  cold  and  icy  bar 
Beneath  the  moon  like  shafts  of  war. 
And  there  a  lovely  tracery 
Of  branch  and  twig  that  naked  tree 
Of  shadows  soft  and  dim  has  wove, 
And  spread  so  gently,  that  above 
The  pure  white  snow  it  seems  to  float 
Lighter  than  that  celestial  boat, 
The  silver-beaked  moon,  on  air, — 
Lighter  than  feathery  gossamer ; 
As  if  its  dark'ning  touch,  through  fear, 
It  held  from  thing  so  saintly  clear. 

Thus  Nature  threw  her  beauties  round  me ; 
Thus,  from  the  gloom  in  which  she  found  me, 
She  won  me  by  her  simple  graces, 
She  wooed  me  with  her  happy  faces. 

The  day  is  closed ;  and  I  refrain 
From  further  talk.     But,  if  of  pain 
It  has  beguiled  a  weary  hour ; 
Jf  to  my  desert  mind,  like  shower 


COMMON-PLACE    LOOK    OF    POETRY.  321 

That  wets  the  parching  earth,  has  come 
A  cheerful  thought,  and  made  its  home 
With  me  awhile  ;    I'd  have  you  share, 
Who  feel  for  me  in  ills  I  bear. 


Lines  occasioned  by  hearing  a  little  Boy  mock  the  Old  South 
Clock,  as  it  rung  the  Hour  of  Twelve. — Mrs.  Child. 

Ay,  ring  thy  shout  to  the  merry  hours  : 

Well  may  ye  part  in  glee  ; 
From  their  sunny  wings  they  scatter  flowers, 

And,  laughing,  look  on  thee. 

Thy  thrilling  voice  has  started  tears : 

It  brings  to  mind  the  day 
When  I  chased  butterflies  and  years,— 

And  both  flew  fast  away. 

Then  my  glad  thoughts  were  few  and  free ; 

They  came  but  to  depart, 
And  did  not  ask  where  heaven  could  be — 

JTwas  in  my  little  heart. 

I  since  have  sought  the  meteor  crown, 

Which  fame  bestows  on  men : 
How  gladly  would  I  throw  it  down, 

To  be  so  gay  again  ! 

But  youthful  joy  has  gone  away  ; 

In  vain  'tis  now  pursued  ; 
Such  rainbow  glories  only  stay 

Around  the  simply  good. 

I  know  too  much,  to  be  as  blessed 

As  when  I  was  like  thee ; 
My  spirit,  reasoned  into  rest, 

Has  lost  its  buoyancy. 

Yet  still  I  love  the  winged  hours  : 

WTe  often  part  in  glee — 
And  sometimes,  too,  are  fragrant  flowers 

Their  farewell  gifts  to  me. 


322  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF  POETRY. 


Hymn  to  the  North  Star. — Bryant. 

The  sad  and  solemn  Night 
Has  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  round  the  heavens,  and  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they; 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way. 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise> 
Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old,  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dip'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 

There,  at  Morn*s  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air; 

And  Eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  Day,  beholds  thee  watching  there ; 
There  Noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure  walls. 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done  ; 

High  towards  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze — the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun — 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud — 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  se^  and  cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 
And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  footsteps  right 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  323 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright,  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful  way. 


Connecticut. — F.  G.  Halleck. 

From  an  unpublished  Poem. 

And  still  her  gray  rocks  tower  above  the  sea 
That  murmurs  at  their  feet,  a  conquered  wave  ; 

'Tis  a  rough  land  of  earth,  and  stone,  and  tree, 
Where  breathes  no  castled  lord  or  cabined  slave ; 

Where  thoughts,  and  tongues,  and  hands,  are  bold  and  free, 
And  friends  will  find  a  welcome,  foes  a  grave ; 

And  where  none  kneel,  save  when  to  Heaven  they  pray, 

Nor  even  then,  unless  in  their  own  way. 

Theirs  is  a  pure  republic,  wild,  yet  strong, 
A  "  fierce  democracie,"  where  all  are  true 

To  what  themselves  have  voted — right  or  wrong — 
And  to  their  laws,  denominated  blue  ; 

(If  red,  they  might  to  Draco's  code  belong;) 
A  vestal  state,  which  power  could  not  subdue, 

Nor  promise  win — like  her  own  eagle's  nest, 

Sacred — the  San  Marino  of  the  west. 

A  justice  of  the  peace,  for  the  time  being, 

They  bow  to,  but  may  turn  him  out  next  year ; 

They  reverence  their  priest,  but,  disagreeing 
In  price  or  creed,  dismiss  him  without  fear  ; 

They  have  a  natural  talent  for  foreseeing 

And  knowing  all  things  ; — and  should  Park  appear 

From  his  long  tour  in  Africa,  to  show 

The  Niger's  source,  they'd  meet  him  with — We  know 

They  love  their  land,  because  it  is  their  own, 
And  scorn  to  give  aught  other  reason  why ; 

Would  shake  hands  with  a  king  upon  his  throne, 
And  think  it  kindness  to  his  majesty ; 

A  stubborn  race,  fearing  and  flattering  none. 
Such  are  they  nurtured,  such  they  live  and  die  : 


324  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

All — but  a  few  apostates,  who  are  meddling 

With  merchandise,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  and  peddling  ; 

Or,  wandering  through  the  southern  countries,  teaching 
The  ABC  from  Webster's  spelling-book ; 

Gallant  and  Godly,  making  love  and  preaching, 
And  gaining,  by  what  they  call  "  hook  and  crook," 

And  what  the  moralists  call  overreaching, 
A  decent  living.     The  Virginians  look 

Upon  them  with  as  favorable  eyes 

As  Gabriel  on  the  devil  in  paradise. 

But  these  are  but  their  outcasts.     View  them  near 
At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  pride  is  placed; 

And  there  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 

And  there  the  lowliest  farm-house  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere, 

Faithful  in  love,  in  honor  stern  and  chaste, 

In  friendship  warm  and  true,  in  danger  brave. 

Beloved  in  life,  and  sainted  in  the  grave. 

And  minds  have  there  been  nurtured,  whose  contrril 

Is  felt  even  in  their  nation's  destiny ; 
Men  who  swayed  senates  with  a  statesman's  soul, 

And  looked  on  armies  with  a  leader's  eye ; 
Names  that  adorn  and  dignify  the  scroll 

Whose  leaves  contain  their  country's  history. 


Hers  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 
Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathay  an  vales, 

The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 
Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 

Of  Florence  and  the  Arno — yet  the  wing 
Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 

Through  sun  and  snow — and,  in  the  autumn  time, 

Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon, — the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills, — her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

The  glorious  splendor  of  her  sunset  clouds, 
The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves  ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  825 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 
The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love  ; 

Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power  ; 
The  maiden,  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove ; 

The  mother,  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower  ; 
Forms,  features,  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 

Be,  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour, 
Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 
To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake ;  you'll  find  them  there 


The  Rising  Moon. — W.  O.  B.  Peabody. 

The  moon  is  up !  How  calm  and  slow 

She  wheels  above  the  hill ! 
The  weary  winds  forget  to  blow, 

And  all  the  world  lies  still. 

The  way-worn  travellers,  with  delight, 

The  rising  brightness  see, 
Revealing  all  the  paths  and  plains, 

And  gilding  every  tree. 

It  glistens  where  the  hurrying  stream 

Its  little  ripple  leaves  ; 
It  falls  upon  the  forest  shade, 

And  sparkles  on  the  leaves. 

So  once,  on  Judah's  evening  hills, 

The  heavenly  lustre  spread; 
The  gospel  sounded  from  the  blaze, 

And  shepherds  gazed  with  dread. 

And  still  that  light  upon  the  world 

Its  guiding  splendor  throws  : 
Bright  in  the  opening  hours  of  life, 

But  brighter  at  the  close. 

The  waning  moon,  in  time,  shall  fail 

To  walk  the  midnight  skies  ; 
But  God  hath  kindled  this  bright  light 

With  fire  that  never  dies. 

28 


32G  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


America  to  Great  Britain* — Washington  Allston. 

All  hail !  thou  noble  land, 

Our  fathers'  native  soil! 
O  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore : 
For  thou,  with  magic  might, 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  Genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime ; 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line, 
Like  the  milky  Way,  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame ! 

Though  ages  long  have  passed 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  untravelled  seas  to  roam, — 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins ! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame, 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language,  free  and  bold, 

Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung, 

♦This  poem  was  written  in  the  year  1810.  It  was  first  printed,  we  be- 
lieve, in  Coleridge's  Sybilline  Leaves.  Coleridge  inserted  it  among  his  own 
poems  with  the  following  note : — 

"  This  poem,  written  by  an  American  gentleman,  a  valued  and  dear 
friend,  I  communicate  to  the  reader  for  its  moral,  no  less  than  its  poetic 
spirit." 

After  such  a  commendation  from  the  greatest  poet,  and  perhaps  the  great- 
est man  living,  any  additional  one  would  be  superfluous. — Ed. 


COMMON-PLACE    HOOK    OF    POETRY.  327 

When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ; 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 
Between  let  Ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  Sun: 
Yet,  still,  from  either  beach, 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"We  are  One!"* 


Th    Wight-flowering  CereusA — Unitarian  Miscellany. 

Now  departs  day's  gairish  light — 

Beauteous  flower,  lift  thy  head  ! 
Rise  upon  the  brow  of  night ! 

Haste,  thy  transient  lustre  shed ! 

Night  has  dropped  her  dusky  veil — 

All  vain  thoughts  be  distant  far, 
While,  with  silent  awe,  we  hail 

Flora's  radiant  evening  star. 

See  to  life  her  beauties  start; 

Hail !  thou  glorious,  matchless  flower ! 
Much  thou  sayest  to  the  heart, 

In  the  solemn,  fleeting  hour. 

*This  alludes  merely  to  the  moral  union  of  the  two  countries.  The 
author  would  not  have  it  supposed  that  the  tribute  of  respect,  offered  in 
these  stanzas  to  the  land  of  his  ancestors,  would  be  paid  by  him,  if  at  the 
expense  of  the  independence  of  that  which  gave  him  birth. 

f  The  night-flowering  Cereus,  or  Cactus  grandiflorus,  is  one  of  our  most 
splendid  hot-house  plants,  and  is  a  native  of  Jamaica  and  some  other  of  the 
West  India  Islands.  Its  stem  is  creeping,  and  thickly  set  with  spines.  The 
flower  is  white,  and  very  large,  sometimes  nearly  a  foot  in  diameter.  The 
most  remarkable  circumstance  with  regard  to  the  flower,  is  the  short  time 
which  it  takes  to  expand,  and  tlie  rapidity  with  which  it  decays.  It  begins 
to  open  late  in  the  evening,  flourishes  for  an  hour  or  two,  then  begins  to 
droop,  and  before  morning  is  completely  dead. 


328  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    TOETRY. 

Ere  we  have  our  homage  paid, 

Thou  wilt  bow  thine  head  and  die  ; 

Thus  our  sweetest  pleasures  fade, 
Thus  our  brightest  blessings  fly. 

Sorrow's  rugged  stem,  like  thine, 
Bears  a  flower  thus  purely  bright; 

Thus,  when  sunny  hours  decline, 
Friendship  sheds  her  cheering  light. 

Religion,  too,  that  heavenly  flower, 
That  joy  of  never-fading  worth, 

Waits,  like  thee,  the  darkest  hour, 
Then   puts  all  her  glories  forth. 

Then  thy  beauties  are  surpassed, 
Splendid  flower,  that  bloom'st  to  die ; 

For  Friendship  and  Religion  last, 
When  the  morning  beams  on  high. 


God  is  Good. — Anonymous. 

God  is  good !     Each  perfumed  flower, 
The  smiling  fields,  the  dark  green  wood, 

The  insect,  fluttering  for  an  hour, — 
All  things  proclaim  that  God  is  good. 

I  hear  it  in  the  rushing  wind ; 

Hills  that  have  for  ages  stood, 
And  clouds,  with  gold  and  silver  lined, 

Are  still  repeating,  God  is  good. 

Each  little  rill,  that,  many  a  year, 
Has  the  same  verdant  path  pursued, 

And  every  bird,  in  accents  clear, 
Joins  in  the  song  that  God  is  good. 

The  restless  main,  with  haughty  roar, 
Calms  each  wild  wave  and  billow  rude, 

Retreats  submissive  from  the  shore, 
And  swells  the  chorus,  God  is  good. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  329 

Countless  hosts  of  burning  stars 

Sing  his  praise  with  light  renewed  ; 
The  rising  sun  each  day  declares, 

In  rays  of  glory,  God  is  good. 

The  moon,  that  walks  in  brightness,  says, 

God  is  good ! — and  man,  endued 
With  power  to  speak  his  Maker's  praise, 

Should  still  repeat  that  God  is  good. 


Manifestation  of  Christ  to  the  Gentiles. — Anonymous. 

When,  on  the  midnight  of  the  East, 

At  the  dead  moment  of  repose, 
Like  hope  on  misery's  darkened  breast, 

The  planet  of  salvation  rose, — 

The  shepherd,  leaning  o'er  his  flock, 
Started  with  broad  and  upward  gaze, — 

Kneeled, — while  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  broke 
On  music  wakened  into  praise. 

The  Arabian  sage,  to  hail  our  King, 

With  Persia's  star-led  magi  comes ; 
And  all,  with  reverent  homage,  bring 

Their  gifts  of  gold  and  odorous  gums. 

If  heathen  sages,  from  afar, 

Followed,  when  darkness  round  them  spread, 
The  kindling  glories  of  that  star, 

And  worshipped  where  its  radiance  led, — 

ShalL  we,  for  whom  that  star  was  hung 
In  the  dark  vault  of  frowning  heaven, — 

Shall  we,  for  whom  that  strain  was  sung, 
That  song  of  peace  and  sin  forgiven, — 

Shall  we,  for  whom  the  Savior  bled, 

Careless  his  banquet's  blessings  see, 
Nor  heed  the  parting  word  that  said 

"  Do  this  in  memory  of  me  ?" 

28* 


330  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


The  Dying  Child. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

Thus  happily  they  lived, 
Till,  in  their  arms,  a  second  pleasant  babe, 
With  a  faint  smile,  intelligent,  began 
To  answer  theirs,  and  with  a  brighter  that 
Of  its  fond  sister,  standing  by  their  side, 
With  frequent  kisses  prattling  in  its  face  ; 
Wrhile  in  its  features,  with  parental  joy, 
And  love  connubial,  they  began  to  mark 
Theirs  intermingled  ; — when,  with  sudden  stroke, 
The  blooming  infant  faded,  and  expired. 
And  soon  its  lonely  sister,  doubly  dear 
Now  in  their  grief,  was  in  like  manner  torn 
From  their  united  grasp.     With  patience  far 
Beyond  her  years,  the  little  sufferer  bore 
Her  sharp  distemper,  while  she  could  behold 
Both  parents  by  her  side ;  but,  when  from  sleep, 
Transient  and  troubled,  waking,  wept  aloud, 
As  terrified,  if  either  were  not  there. 
To  hear  their  voices  singing  of  the  love 
Of  her  Redeemer,  in  her  favorite  hymn, 
And  praying  for  his  mercy,  oft  she  asked 
With  eagerness,  and  seemed  the  while  at  ease. 
When  came  the  final  struggle,  with  the  look 
Of  a  grieved  child,  and  with  its  mournful  cry, 
But  still  with  something  of  her  wonted  tone 
Of  confidence  in  danger,  as  for  help 
She  called  on  them,  on  both  alternately, 
As  if  by  turns  expecting  that  relief 
From  each  the  other  had  grown  slow  to  yield ; 
At  which  their  calmness,  undisturbed  till  then, 
Gave  way  to  agitation  past  control. 
A  few  heart-rending  moments,  and  her  voice 
Sunk  to  a  weak  and  inarticulate  moan, 
Then  in  a  whisper  ended ;  and  with  that 
Her  features  grew  composed  and  fixed  in  death; 
At  sight  of  which  their  lost  tranquillity 
At  once  returned.     'Twas  evening;  and  the  lamp, 
Set  near,  shone  full  upon  her  placid  face, 
Its  snowy  white  illuming,  while  they  stood 
Gazing  as  on  her  loveliness  in  sleep, 
The  enfeebled  mother  on  the  father's  arm 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  331 

Heavily  hanging,  like  the  slender  flower 
On  its  firm  prop,  when  loaded  down  with  rain 
Or  morning  dew. 


To  a  Musquito. — New  York  Review. 

Fair  insect,  that,  with  thread-like  legs  spread  out, 
And  blood-extracting  bill,  and  rilmy  wing, 

Dost  murmur,  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 
In  pitiless  ears,  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 

And  tell'st  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bleed, 
Would  we  but  yield  them  freely  to  thy  need  ; 


I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween, 
Has  not  the  honor  of  so  proud  a  birth  ; 

Thou  com'st  from  Jersey  meadows,  broad  and  green, 
The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on  earth. 


At  length  thy  pinions  fluttered  in  Broadway — 

Ah,  there  were  fairy  steps,  and  white  necks  kissed 

By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 

Shone  through  the  snowy  veils  like  stars  through  mist ! 

And,  fresh  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin, 

Bloomed  the  bright  blood  through  the  transparent  skin. 

O,  these  were  sights  to  touch  an  anchorite  ! — 
What,  do  I  hear  thy  slender  voice  complain  r 

Thou  wailest,  when  I  talk  of  beauty's  light, 
As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain  : 

Thou  art  a  wayward  being — well,  come  near, 

And  pour  thy  tale  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 

What  say'st  thou,  slanderer?  "  Rouge  makes  thee  sick, 

And  China  bloom  at  best  is  sorry  food ; 
And  Rowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 

Poisons  the  thirsty  wretch  that  bores  for  blood  ?" 
Go,  'twas  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime — 
But  shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

That  bloom  was  made  to  look  at,  not  to  touch, 
To  worship,  not  aporoach,  that  radiant  white ; 


332  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POKTltY. 

And  well  might  sudden  vengeance  light  on  such 

As  dared,  like  thee,  most  impiously,  to  bite. 
Thou  should'st  have  gazed  at  distance,  and  admired, 
Murmured  thy  adoration,  and  retired. 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  the  town  ;  but  why  come  here 
To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt  like  thee  ? 

Alas !  the  little  blood  I  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banquet  drawn  from  me. 

Look  round — the  pale-eyed  sisters,  in  my  cell, 

Thy  old  acquaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 

Try  some  plump  alderman ;  and  suck  the  blood 
Enriched  with  generous  wine  and  costly  meat ; 

In  well  filled  skins,  soft  as  thy  native  mud, 

Fix  thy  light  pump,  and  raise  thy  freckled  feet. 

Go  to  the  men  for  whom,  in  ocean's  halls, 

The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle  sprawls. 

There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage  flows, 
To  fill  the  swelling  veins  for  thee  ;  and  now 

The  ruddy  cheek,  and  now  the  ruddier  nose, 
Shall  tempt  thee  as  thou  flittest  round  the  brow  ■ 

And  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings, 

No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy  wings. 


Earth,  with  her  thousand  Voices,  praises  God  — 
Longfellow.* 

When  first,  in  ancient  time,  from  Jubal's  tongue, 

The  tuneful  anthem  filled  the  morning  air, 

To  sacred  hymnings  and  Elysian  song 

His  music-breathing  shell  the  minstrel  woke. 


*  Most  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poetry — indeed,  we  believe  nearly  all  that  ha3 
been  published — appeared,  during  his  college  life,  in  the  United  States' 
Literary  Gazette.  It  displays  a  very  refined  taste,  and  a  very  pure  vein  of 
poetical  feeling.  It  possesses  what  has  been  a  rare  quality  in  the  American 
poets — simplicity  of  expression,  without  any  attempt  to  startle  the  reader, 
or  to  produce  an  effect  by  far-sought  epithets.  There  is  much  sweetness  in 
his  imagery  and  language  ;  and  sometimes  he  is  hardly  excelled  by  any 
one  for  the  quiet  accuracy  exhibited  in  his  pictures  of  natural  objects.  His 
poetry  will  not  easily  be  forgotten  ;  some  of  it  will  be  remembered  with 
that  of  Dana  and  Bryant. — ilu. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  333 

Devotion  breathed  aloud  from  every  chord ; — 

The  voice  of  praise  was  heard  in  every  tone, 

And  prayer,  and  thanks  to  Him,  the  Eternal  One, — 

To  Him,  that,  with  bright  inspiration,  touched 

The  high  and  gifted  lyre  of  heavenly  song, 

And  warmed  the  soul  with  new  vitality. 

A  stirring  energy  through  nature  breathed ; — 

The  voice  of  adoration  from  her  broke, 

Swelling  aloud  in  every  breeze,  and  heard 

Long  in  the  sullen  waterfall, — what  time 

Soft  Spring  or  hoary  Autumn  threw  on  earth 

Its  bloom  or  blighting, — when  the  Summer  smiled, 

Or  Winter  o'er  the  year's  sepulchre  mourned. 

The  Deity  was  there  ! — a  nameless  spirit 

Moved  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  do  him  homage  ; 

And  when  the  Morning  smiled,  or  Evening,  pale, 

Hung  weeping  o'er  the  melancholy  urn, 

They  came  beneath  the  broad  o'erarching  trees, 

And  in  their  tremulous  shadow  worshipped  oft, 

Where  the  pale  vine  clung  round  their  simple  altars, 

And  gray  moss  mantling  hung.     Above  was  heard 

The  melody  of  winds,  breathed  out  as  the  green  trees 

Bowed  to  their  quivering  touch  in  living  beauty, 

And  birds  sang  forth  their  cheerful  hymns.     Below, 

The  bright  and  widely- wandering  rivulet 

Struggled  and  gushed  amongst  the  tangled  roots, 

That  choked  its  reedy  fountain — and  dark  rocks, 

Worn  smooth  by  the  constant  current.     Even  there 

The  listless  wave,  that  stole,  with  mellow  voice, 

Where  reeds  grew  rank  upon  the  rushy  brink, 

And  to  the  wandering  wind  the  green  sedge  bent, 

Sang  a  sweet  song  of  fixed  tranquillity. 

Men  felt  the  heavenly  influence  ;  and  it  stole 

Like  balm  into  their  hearts,  till  all  was  peace ; 

And  even  the  air  they  breathed, — the  light  they  saw, — 

Became  religion ; — for  the  ethereal  spirit, 

That  to  soft  music  wakes  the  chords  of  feeling, 

And  mellows  every  thing  to  beauty,  moved 

With  cheering  energy  within  their  breasts, 

And  made  all  holy  there — for  all  was  love. 

The  morning  stars,  that  sweetly  sang  together — 

The  moon,  that  hung  at  night  in  the  mid-sky— 

Dayspring — and  eventide — and  all  the  fair 

And  beautiful  forms  of  nature,  had  a  voice 

Of  eloquent  worship.     Ocean,  with  its  tide, 


334  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Swelling  and  deep,  where  low  the  infant  storm 

Hung  on  his  dun,  dark  cloud,  and  heavily  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  sea,  sent  forth  a  voice 

Of  awful  adoration  to  the  Spirit, 

That,  wrapped  in  darkness,  moved  upon  its  face. 

And  when  the  bow  of  evening  arched  the  east, 

Or,  in  the  moonlignt  pale,  the  gentle  wave 

Kissed,  with  a  sweet  embrace,  the  sea- worn  beach, 

And  the  wild  song  of  winds  came  o'er  the  waters, 

The  mingled  melody  of  wind  and  wave 

Touched  like  a  heavenly  anthem  on  the  ear ; 

For  it  arose  a  tuneful  hymn  of  worship. 

And  have  our  hearts  grown  cold  ?  Are  there  on  earth 

No  pure  reflections  caught  from  heavenly  love  ? 

Have  our  mute  lips  no  hymn — our  souls  no  song  ? 

Let  him,  that,  in  the  summer-day  of  youth, 

Keeps  pure  the  holy  fount  of  youthful  feeling, 

And  him,  that,  in  the  nightfall  of  his  years, 

Lies  down  in  his  last  sleep,  and  shuts  in  peace 

His  weary  eyes  on  life's  short  wayfaring, 

Praise  Him  that  rules  the  destiny  of  man. 


The  Blind  Man's  Lament. — James  Wallis  Eastburn. 

O  where  are  the  visions  of  ecstasy  bright, 
That  can  burst  o'er  the  darkness,  and  banish  the  night  ? 
O  where  are  the  charms  that  the  day  can  unfold 
To  the  heart  and  the  eye  that  their  glories  can  hold  ? 
Deep,  deep  in  the  silence  of  sorrow  I  mourn ; 
For  no  visions  of  beauty  for  me  shall  e'er  burn ! 
They  have  told  me  of  sweet  purple  hues  of  the  west, 
Of  the  rich  tints  that  sparkle  on  Ocean's  wide  breast ; 
They  have  told  me  of  stars  that  are  burning  on  high, 
When  the  night  is  careering  along  the  vast  sky  ; 
But,  alas!  there  remains,  wheresoever  I  flee, 
Nor  beauty,  nor  lustre,  nor  brightness  for  me  ! 

But  yet,  to  my  lone,  gloomy  couch  there  is  given 
A  ray  to  my  heart  that  is  kindled  in  heaven ; 
It  soothes  the  dark  path  through  this  valley  of  tears ; 
It  enlivens  my  heart,  and  my  sorrow  it  cheers ; 
For  it  tells  of  a  morn  when  this  night  shall  pass  by, 
And  my  spirit  shall  dwell  where  the  days  do  not  die. 


COMiMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      335 


The  Dying  Girl. — Mrs.  Hale's  Magazine. 

Sister,  death's  veil  is  gathering  fast; 

The  chilly  seal  has  marked  my  brow ; 
This  young  heart's  mournful  dream  is  past ; 

The  golden  cords  are  severing  now. 

The  spirit  of  the  tear-gemmed  throne 

Bounds  o'er  me  with  angelic  light ; 
And  Mercy,  on  Love's  wings,  hath  flown 

To  guide  my  soul's  mysterious  flight. 

I  leave  thee,  sister, — thee,  the  last, 
A  lone  one,  drooping  'mid  the  dead — 

A  bud,  o'er  whose  pale  leaf  is  cast 

The  blight,  from  Sorrow's  pinion  shed. 

If  from  the  blessed  realms  of  light, 
Love  still  may  own  its  mortal  birth, 

May  soften  still  Affliction's  night, 
Thou  shalt  not,  sister,  pine  on  earth. 

For  where  the  young  buds'  dewy  fold 

Flings  hallowed  incense  on  the  air, 
Where  they  once  met  who  now  are  cold, 

This  soul  of  mine  shall  meet  thee  there. 

Kneel  thou  beside  my  lonely  grave, 
When  summer  breezes  o'er  it  sweep, 

When  yon  proud  orb,  that  gilds  the  wave, 
Sinks  glorious  to  his  ocean  sleep. 

Kneel,  and  the  vow  thou  breathest  there, 
At  that  lone  hour,  shall  float  on  high, — 

Spirits  of  light  shall  bless  thy  prayer, 

The  dead,  the  crowned,  shall  greet  thy  sigh 

And  now,  farewell !  Strange  music  floats, 
Like  angel  breathings,  round  my  heart. 

Are  those  the  Avenger's  awful  notes  ? 
The  signal  tones,  that  life  must  part  ? 

Yes,  yes, — the  One,  the  God,  who  sways 
Creation's  depths,  hath  bid  me  come 

To  seek  the  realms  that  hymn  His  praise, 
The  franchised  soul's  eternal  home. 


336  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    rOETRY. 


Autumn* — Peabody. 

The  dying  year!  the  dying  year  ! 

The  heaven  is  clear  and  mild ; 
And  withering  all  the  fields  appear 

Where  once  the  verdure  smiled. 

The  summer  ends  its  short  career ; 

The  zephyr  breathes  farewell ; 
And  now  upon  the  closing  year 

The  yellow  glories  dwell. 

The  radiant  clouds  float  slow  above 
The  lake's  transparent  breast ; 

In  splendid  foliage  all  the  grove 
Is  fancifully  dressed. 

On  many  a  tree  the  autumn  throws 

Its  brilliant  robes  of  red ; 
As  sickness  lights  the.  cheeks  of  those 

It  hastens  to  the  dead. 

That  tinge  is  flattering  and  bright, 
But  tells  of  death  like  this  ; 

And  they,  that  see  its  gathering  light, 
Their  lingering  hopes  dismiss. 

O,  thus  serene,  and  free  from  fear, 

Shall  be  our  last  repose  ; 
Thus,  like  the  sabbath  of  the  year, 

Our  latest  evening  close. 


Spring. — Peabody. 

When  brighter  suns  and  milder  skies 
Proclaim  the  opening  year, 


*  This  piece,  and  some  others  in  this  volume,  are  selected  from  a  little 
Catechism  in  verse,  prepared  several  years  since  by  Mr.  Peabody,  for  the 
use  of  children.  It  contains  true  poetry,  besides  being  well  adapted,  by 
its  simplicity,  for  the  purpose  which  the  "author  had  in  view. — Ed. 


1 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  337 

What  various  sounds  of  joy  arise  ! 
What  prospects  bright  appear  ! 

Earth  and  her  thousand  voices  give 

Their  thousand  notes  of  praise  ; 
And  all,  that  by  his  mercy  live, 

To  God  their  offering  raise. 

Forth  walks  the  laborer  to  his  toil, 

And  sees  the  fresh  array 
Of  verdure  clothe  the  flowery  soil 

Along  his  careless  way. 

The  streams,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 

Reflect  the  morning  sky ; 
And  there,  with  music  in  his  flight, 

The  wild  bird  soars  on  high. 

Thus,  like  the  morning,  calm  and  clear, 

That  saw  the  Savior  rise, 
The  spring  of  heaven's  eternal  year 

Shall  dawn  on  earth  and  skies. 

No  winter  there,  no  shades  of  night, 

Profane  those  mansions  blessed, 
Where,  in  the  happy  fields  of  light, 

The  weary  are  at  rest. 


Summer. — Peabody. 

How  fast  the  rapid  hours  retire  ! 

How  soon  ihe  spring  was  done  ! 
And  now  no  cloud  keeps  off  the  fire 

Of  the  bright,  burning  sun. 

The  slender  flower-bud  dreads  to  swell 

In  that  unclouded  blue, 
And  treasures  in  its  fading  bell 

The  spark  of  morning  dew. 

The  stream  bounds  lightly  from  the  spring 

To  cool  and  shadowy  caves  ; 
And  the  bird  dips  his  weary  wing 

Beneath  its  sparkling  waves. 
29 


338  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Rosalie. — Mrs.  Hale's   Magazine. 

There  sits  a  woman  on  the  brow 

Of  yonder  rocky  height ; 
There,  gazing  o'er  the  waves  below, 

She  sits  from  morn  till  night. 

She  heeds  not  how  the  mad  waves  leap 

Along  the  rugged  shore  ; 
She  looks  for  one  upon  the  deep 

She  never  may  see  more. 

Far  other  once  was  Rosalie  ; 

Her  smile  was  glad ;  her  voice, 
Like  music  o'er  a  summer  sea, 

Said  to  the  heart— Rejoice. 

Nine  years — though  all  have  given  him  o'er, 

Her  spirit  doth  not  fail ; 
And  still  she  waits  along  the  shore 

The  never-coming  sail. 

On  that  high  rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 

Ever  she  sits,  as  now  ; 
The  dews  have  damped  her  flowing  hair; 

The  sun  has  scorched  her  brow. 

And  every  far-off  sail  she  sees, 

And  every  passing  cloud, 
Or  white- winged  sea-bird,  on  the  breeze, 

She  calls  to  it  aloud. 

The  sea-bird  answers  to  her  cry, 

The  cloud,  the  sail  float  on  ; 
The  hoarse  wave  mocks  her  misery, 

Yet  is  her  hope  not  gone. 

When  falling  dews  the  clover  steep, 

And  birds  are  in  their  nest, 
And  flower-buds  folded  up  to  sleep, 

And  ploughmen  gone  to  rest, — 

Down  the  rude  track  her  feet  have  worn — 
There  scarce  the  goat  may  go — 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  339 

Poor  Rosalie,  with  look  forlorn, 
Is  seen  descending  slow. 

But  when  the  gray  morn  tints  the  sky, 

And  lights  that  lofty  peak, — 
With  a  strange  lustre  in  her  eye, 

A  fever  in  her  cheek, — 

Again  she  goes,  untired,  to  sit, 

And  watch,  the  live-long  day ; 
Nor,  till  the  star  of  eve  is  lit, 

E'er  turns  her  steps  away. 


To  a  young  Invalid,  condemned,  by  accidental  Lameness,  to 
perpetual  Confinement. — Henry  Pickering. 

"  And  must  he  make 
That  heart  a  grave,  and  in  it  bury  deep 
Its  young  and  beautiful  feelings?" 

Thine  is  the  spring  of  life,  dear  boy, 

And  thine  should  be  its  flowers ; 
Thine,  too,  should  be  the  voice  of  joy, 

To  hasten  on  the  hours : 
And  thou,  with  cheek  of  rosiest  hue, 

With  winged  feet,  shouldst  still 
Thy  sometime  frolic  course  pursue 

O'er  lawn  and  breezy  hill. 

Not  so !  What  means  this  foolish  heart, 

And  verse  as  idly  vain  ? 
Each  hath  his  own  allotted  part 

Of  pleasure  and  of  pain  : 
And  while  thou  canst  the  hours  beguile, 

(Thus  patiently  reclined,) 
I  would  not  quench  that  languid  smile, 

Or  see  thee  less  resigned. 

Some  are  condemned  to  roam  the  earth, 

A  various  fate  to  share, 
Scarce  destined,  from  their  very  birth, 

To  know  a  parent's  care. 


340  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POF.TUY. 

To  thee,  sweet  one,  repose  was  given, 

Yet  not  without  alloy ; 
That  thou  might'st  early  think  of  heaven, 

The  promised  seat  of  joy  ; — 

That  thou  might'st  know  what  love  supreme 

Pervades  a  mother's  breasts- 
Flame  quenchless  as  the  heavenly  beam, 

The  purest  and  the  best.^- 
William,  that  love  which  shadows  thee, 

Is  eminently  mine ; 
0  that  my  riper  life  could  be 

Deserving  it  as  thine  ! 


The  Sage  of  Caucasus. — Hillhouse. 

Hadad.     None  knows  his  lineage,  age,  or  name  :  his  locks 
Are  like  the  snows  of  Caucasus  ;  his  eyes 
Beam  with  the  wisdom  of  collected  ages. 
In  green,  unbroken  years,  he  sees,  'tis  said, 
The  generations  pass,  like  autumn  fruits, 
Garnered,  consumed,  and  springing  fresh  to  life, 
Again  to  perish,  while  he  views  the  sun, 
The  seasons  roll,  in  rapt  serenity, 
And  high  communion  with  celestial  powers. 
Some  say  'tis  Shem,  our  father;  some  say  Enoch, 
And  some  Melchisedek. 

Tamar.     I've  heard  a  tale 
Like  this,  but  ne'er  believed  it. 

Had.     I  have  proved  it. — 
Through  perils  dire,  dangers  most  imminent, 
Seven  days  and  nights  midst  rocks  and  wildernesses, 
And  boreal  snows,  and  never-thawing  ice, 
Where  not  a  bird,  a  beast,  a  living  thing, 
Save  the  far-soaring  vulture,  comes,  I  dared 
My  desperate  way,  resolved  to  know,  or  perish. 

Tarn.     Rash,  rash  advent'rer  ! 

Had.     On  the  highest  peak 
Of  stormy  Caucasus,  there  blooms  a  spot, 
On  which  perpetual  sunbeams  play,  where  flowers 
And  verdure  never   die  ;  and  there  he  dwells. 

Tarn.     But  did'st  thou  see  him  ? 

Had.     Never  did  I  view 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  341 

Such  awful  majesty  :  his  reverend  locks 
Hung  like  a  silver  mantle  to  his  feet ; 
His  raiment  glistered  saintly  white  ;  his  brow 
Rose  like  the  gate  of  Paradise  ;  his  mouth 
Was  musical  as  its  bright  guardians'  songs. 


The  Resolution  of  Ruth. — Christian  Examiner. 

Farewell  ?     O  no !  it  may  not  be  ; 

My  firm  resolve  is  heard  on  high : 
I  will  not  breathe  farewell  to  thee, 

Save  only  in  my  dying  sigh. 
I  know  not  that  I  now  could  bear 

For  ever  from  thy  side  to  part, 
And  live  without  a  friend  to  share 

The  treasured  sadness  of  my  heart. 

I  did  not  love,  in  former  years, 

To  leave  thee  solitary :  now, 
When  sorrow  dims  thine  eyes  with  tears, 

And  shades  the  beauty  of  thy  brow, 
I'll  share  the  trial  and  the  pain  ; 

And  strong  the  furnace  fires  must  be, 
To  melt  away  the  willing  chain, 

That  binds  a  daughter's  heart  to  thee. 

I  will  not  boast  a  martyr's  might 

To  leave  my  home  without  a  sigh — 
The  dwelling  of  my  past  delight, 

The  shelter  where  I  hoped  to  die. 
In  such  a  duty,  such  an  hour, 

The  weak  are  strong,  the  timid  brave ; 
For  Love  puts  on  an  angel's  power, 

And  Faith  grows  mightier  than  the  grave. 

It  was  not  so,  ere  he  we  loved, 

And  vainly  strove  with  Heaven  to  save, 
Heard  the  low  call  of  Death,  and  moved 

With  holy  calmness  to  the  grave, 
Just  at  that  brightest  hour  of  youth 

When  life  spread  out  before  us  lay, 
And  charmed  us  with  its  tones  of  truth, 

And  colors  radiant  as  the  day. 
29* 


342  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

When  morning's  tears  of  joy  were  shed, 

Or  nature's  evening  incense  rose, 
We  thought  upon  the  grave  with  dread, 

And  shuddered  at  its  dark  repose. 
But  all  is  altered  now  :  of  death 

The  morning  echoes  sweetly  speak, 
And,  like  my  loved  one's  dying  breath, 

The  evening  breezes  fan  my  cheek. 

For  rays  of  heaven,  serenely  bright, 

Have  gilt  the  caverns  of  the  tomb  ; 
And  I  can  ponder,  with  delight, 

On  all  its  gathering  thoughts  of  gloom. 
Then,  mother,  let  us  haste  away 

To  that  blessed  land  to  Israel  given, 
Where  Faith,  unsaddened  by  decay, 

Dwells  nearest  to  its  native  heaven. 

We'll  stand  within  the  temple's  bound, 

In  courts  by  kings  and  prophets  trod ; 
We'll  bless  with  tears  the  sacred  ground, 

And  there  be  earnest  with  our  God, 
Where  peace  and  praise  for  ever  reign, 

And  glorious  anthems  duly  flow, 
Till  seraphs  lean  to  catch  the  strain 

Of  heaven's  devotions  here  below. 

But  where  thou  goest  I  will  go ; 

With  thine  my  earthly  lot  is  cast; 
In  pain  and  pleasure,  joy  and  wo, 

Will  I  attend  thee  to  the  last. 
That  hour  shall  find  me  by  thy  side ; 

And  where  thy  grave  is,  mine  shall  be ; 
Death  can  but  for  a  time  divide 

My  firm  and  faithful  heart  from  thee. 


Live  for  Eternity. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

A  bright  or  dark  eternity  in  view, 

With  all  its  fixed,  unutterable  things, 

What  madness  in  the  living  to  pursue, 

As  their  chief  portion,  with  the  speed  of  wings, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  343 

The  joys  that  death-beds  always  turn  to  stings ! 
Infatuated  man,  on  earth's  smooth  waste 
To  dance  along  the  path  that  always  brings 
Quick  to  an  end,  from  which  with  tenfold  haste 
Back  would  he  gladly  fly  till  all  should  be  retraced ! 

Our  life  i3  like  the  hurrying  on  the  eve 
Before  we  start,  on  some  long  journey  bound, 
When  fit  preparing  to  the  last  we  leave, 
Then  run  to  every  room  the  dwelling  round, 
And  sigh  that  nothing  needed  can  be  found ; 
Yet  go  we  must,  and  soon  as  day  shall  break; 
We  snatch  an  hour's  repose,  when  loud  the  sound 
For  our  departure  calls  ;  we  rise  and  take 
A  quick  and  sad  farewell,  and  go  ere  well  awake. 

Reared  in  the  sunshine,  blasted  by  the  storms, 
Of  changing  time,  scarce  asking  why  or  whence, 
Men  come  and  go  like  vegetable  forms, 
Though  heaven  appoints  for  them  a  work  immense, 
Demanding  constant  thought  and  zeal  intense, 
Awaked  by  hopes  and  fears  that  leave  no  room 
For  rest  to  mortals  in  the  dread  suspense, 
While  yet  they  know  not  if  beyond  the  tomb 
A  long,  long  life  of  bliss  or  wo  shall  be  their  doom. 

What  matter  whether  pain  or  pleasures  fill 
The  swelling  heart  one  little  moment  here  ? 
From  both  alike  how  vain  is  every  thrill, 
While  an  untried  eternity  is  near! 
Think  not  of  rest,  fond  man,  in  life's  career; 
The  joys  and  grief  that  meet  thee,  dash  aside 
Like  bubbles,  and  thy  bark  right  onward  steer 
Through  calm  and  tempest,  till  it  cross  the  tide, 
Shoot  into  port  in  triumph,  or  serenely  glide. 


Dedication  Hymn. — Pierpont. 

With  trump,  and  pipe,  and  viol  chords, 
And  song,  the  full  assembly  brings 

Its  tribute  to  the  Lord  of  lords, 
Its  homage  to  the  King  of  kings. 


344  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

To  God,  who,  from  the  rocky  prison 

Where  death  had  bound  him,  brought  his  Son, 

To  God  these  walls  from  earth  have  risen ; — 
To  God,  "  the  high  and  lofty  Ojye." 

Creator,  at  whose  steadfast  word 

Alike  the  seas  and  seasons  roll, 
Here  may  thy  truth  in  Christ  our  Lord 

Shine  forth,  and  sanctify  the  soul. 

Here,  whore  we  hymn  thy  praises  now, 
Father  and  Judge,  may  many  a  knee 

And  many  a  spirit  humbly  bow 
In  worship  and  in  prayer  to  Thee. 

And  when  our  lips  no  more  shall  move, 
Our  hearts  no  longer  beat  or  burn, 

Then,  may  the  children  that  we  love 
Take  up  the  strain,  and,  in  their  turn, 

With  trump,  and  pipe,  and  viol  strings 
Here  pay,  with  music's  sweet  accords, 

Their  tribute  to  the  King  of  kings, 
Their  homage  to  the  Lord  of  lords. 


The  Indian  Summer. — OBrainard. 

What  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  autumn  leaves  ? 
Have  they  that  "  green  and  yellow  melancholy," 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of? — Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 
Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms — 
When  the  dread  fever  quits  us — when  the  storms 
Of  the  wild  Equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 
Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  deluge  left  it, 
With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colors  hung 
Upon  the  forest  tops — he  had  not  sighed. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  hunter  now : 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store  : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  345 

The  bright  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  sadd'ning  in  the  autumn  leaves  ?" 


To  William.     Written  by  a  bereaved  Father. — Peabody. 

It  seems  but  yesterday,  my  love,  thy  little  heart  beat  high ; 
And  I  had  almost  scorned  the  voice  that  told  me  thou  must  die. 
I  saw  thee  move  with  active  bound,  with  spirits  wild  and  tree, 
And  infant  grace  and  beauty  gave  their  glorious  charm  to  thee. 

Far  on  the  sunny  plains,  I  saw  thy  sparkling  footsteps  fly, 
Firm,  light,  and  graceful,  as  the  bird  that  cleaves  the  morn- 
ing sky ; 
And  often,  as  the  playful  breeze  waved  back  thy  shining  hair, 
Thy  cheek  displayed   the  red   rose  tint  that  Health  had 
painted  there. 

And  then,  in  all  my  thoughtfulness,  I  could  not  but  rejoice, 
To  hear  upon  the  morning  wind  the  music  of  thy  voice, — 
Now  echoing  in  the  rapturous  laugh,  now  sad  almost  to  tears ; 
'Twas  like  the  sounds  I  used  to  hear,  in  old  and  happier  years. 

Thanks  for  that  memory  to  thee,  my  little  lovely  boy, — 
That  memory  of  my  youthful  bliss,  which  Time  would  fain 

destroy. 
I  listened,  as  the  mariner  suspends  the  out-bound  oar, 
To  taste  the  farewell  gale  that  breathes  from  off  his  native 

shore. 

So  gentle  in  thy  loveliness ! — alas !  how  could  it  be, 
That  Death  would  not  forbear  to  lay  his  icy  hand  on  thee  ? 
Nor  spare  thee  yet  a  little  while,  in  childhood's  opening  bloom, 
While  many  a  sad  and  weary  soul  was  longing  for  the  tomb  ? 

Was  mine  a  happiness  too  pure  for  erring  man  to  know  ? 
Or  why  did  Heaven  so  soon  destroy  my  paradise  below  ? 
Enchanting  as  the  vision  was,  it  sunk  away  as  soon 
As  when,  in  quick  and  cold  eclipse,  the  sun  grows  dark  at 
noon. 


346  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

I  loved  thee,  and  my  heart  was  blessed  ;  but,  ere  that  day  was 

spent, 
I  saw  thy  light  and  graceful  form  in  drooping  illness  bent, 
And  shuddered  as  I  cast  a  look  upon  thy  fainting  head ; 
The  mournful  cloud  was  gathering  there,  and  life  was  almost 

fled. 

Days  passed ;  and  soon  the  seal  of  death  made  known  that 

hope  was  vain ; 
I  knew  the  swiftly-wasting  lamp  would  never  burn  again ; 
The  cheek  was  pale  ;  the  snowy  lips  were  gently  thrown 

apart ; 
And  life,  in  every  passing  breath,  seemed  gushing  from  the 

heart. 

I  knew  those  marble  lips  to  mine  should  never  more  be  pressed, 
And  floods  of  feeling,  undefined,  rolled  widely  o'er  my  breast ; 
Low,  stifled  sounds,  and  dusky  forms,  seemed  moving  in  the 

gloom, 
As  if  Death's  dark  array  were  come  to  bear  thee  to  the  tomb. 

And  when  I  could  not  keep  the  tear  from  gathering  in  my 

eye, 
Thy  little  hand  pressed  gently  mine,  in  token  of  reply ; 
To  ask  one  more  exchange  of  love,  thy  look  was  upward  cast, 
And  in  that  long  and  burning  kiss  thy  happy  spirit  passed. 

I  never  trusted  to  have  lived  to  bid  farewell  to  thee, 

And  almost  said,  in  agony,  it  ought  not  so  to  be  ; 

I  hoped  that  thou,  within  the  grave  my  weary  head  should*st 

lay, 
And  live,  beloved,  when  I  was  gone,  for  many  a  happy  day. 

With  trembling  hand  I  vainly  tried  thy  dying  eyes  to  close  ; 
And  almost  envied,  in  that  hour,  thy  calm  and  deep  repose ; 
For  I  was  left  in  loneliness,  with  pain  and  grief  oppressed, 
And  thou  wast  with  the  sainted,  where  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Yes,  I  am  sad  and  weary  now ;  but  let  me  not  repine, 
Because  a  spirit,  loved  so  well,  is  earlier  blessed  than  mine ; 
My  faith  may  darken  as  it  will,  I  shall  not  much  deplore, 
Since  thou  art  where  the  ills  of  life  can  never  reach  thee  more. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      347 


Part  of  the  \§th  Psalm. — James  Wallis  Eastburn. 

The  glittering  heaven's  refulgent  glow, 

And  sparkling  spheres  of  golden  fight, 
Jehovah's  work  and  glory  show, 

By  burning  day  or  gentle  night. 
In  silence,  through  the  vast  profound, 

They  move  their  orbs  of  fire  on  high, 
Nor  speech,  nor  word,  nor  answering  sound, 

Is  heard  upon  the  tranquil  sky ; 
Yet  to  the  earth's  remotest  bar 

Their  burning  glory,  all  is  known ; 
Their  living  light  has  sparkled  far, 

And  on  the  attentive  silence  shone. 

God,  'mid  their  shining  legions,  rears 

A  tent  where  burns  the  radiant  sun  : 
As,  like  a  bridegroom  bright,  appears 

The  monarch,  on  his  course  begun, 
From  end  to  end  of  azure  heaven 

He  holds  his  fiery  path  along ; 
To  all  his  circling  heat  is  given, 

His  radiance  flames  the  spheres  among. 
By  sunny  ray,  and  starry  throne, 

The  wonders  of  our  mighty  Lord 
To  man's  attentive  heart  are  known, 

Bright  as  the  promise  of  his  word. 


What  is  that.  Mother  ? — George  W.  Doane. 

What  is  that,  mother  ? — 

The  lark,  my  child. — 
The  morn  has  but  just  looked  out,  and  smiled, 
When  he  starts  from  his  humble,  grassy  nest, 
And  is  up  and  away  with  the  dew  on  his  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure,  bright  sphere, 
To  warble  it  out  in  his  Maker's  ear. 
Ever,  my  child,  be  thy  morn's  first  lays 
Tuned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Maker's  praise. 

What  is  that,  mother  ?— 

The  dove,  my  son. — 
And  that  low,  sweet  voice*  like  a  widow's  moan, 


348  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Is  flowing  out  from  her  gentle  breast, 

Constant  and  pure  by  that  lonely  nest, 

As  the  wave  is  poured  from  some  crystal  urn, 

For  her  distant  dear  one's  quick  return. 

Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  the  dove, — 

In  friendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  love. 

What  is  that,  mother  ? — 

The  eagle,  boy, 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy, 
Firm  in  his  own  mountain  vigor  relying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying; 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  on  the  sun, 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  onward,  right  on. 
Boy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine, 
Onward  and  upward,  true  to  the  line. 

What  is  that,  mother  ? — 

The  swan,  my  love. — 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  grove, 
No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh ; 
He  is  floating  down  by  himself  to  die  ; 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  unplumes  his  wings, 
Yet  the  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings. 
Live  so,  my  love,  that  when  Death  shall  come, 
Swan-like  and  sweet,  it  may  waft  thee  home. 


Scene  at  the  Death-Bed  of  Rev.  Dr.  Payson. — 
Mrs.  SigourjYEY. 

"  His  eye  spoke  after  his  tongue  became  motionless.  Looking  on  Mrs. 
Payson,  and  glancing  over  the  others  who  surrounded  his  bed,  it  rested  on 
Edward,  his  eldest  son,  with  an  expression  which  was  interpreted  by  all  pres- 
ent to  say,  as  plainly  as  if  it  had  uttered  the  words  of  the  beloved  disciple, 
*  Behold  thy  Mother  !'  " — Memoir  of  Payson,  p.  425. 

What  said  the  eye  ? — The  marble  lip  spake  not, 
Save  in  that  quivering  sob  with  which  stern  Death 
Doth  crush  life's  harp-strings. — Lo,  again  it  pours 
A  tide  of  more  than  uttered  eloquence  ! — 
"  Son! — look  upon  thy  mother!" — and  retires 
Beneath  the  curtain  of  the  drooping  lids, 
To  hide  itself  forever.     'Tis  the  last, 
Last  glance  ! — and  mark  how  tenderly  it  fell 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  349 

Upon  that  loved  companion,  and  the  groups 

That  wept  around. — Full  well  the  dying  knew 

The  value  of  those  holy  chanties 

Which  purge  the  dross  of  selfishness  away ; 

And  deep  he  felt  that  woman's  trusting  heart, 

Rent  from  the  cherished  prop,  which,  next  to  Christ, 

Had  been  her  stay  in  all  adversities, 

Would  take  the  balm-cup  best  from  that  dear  hand 

Which  woke  the  sources  of  maternal  love, — 

That  smile,  whose  winning  paid  for  sleepless  nights 

Of  cradle-care, — that  voice,  whose  murmured  tone 

Her  own  had  moulded  to  the  words  of  prayer. 

How  soothing  to  a  widowed  mother's  breast 

Her  first-born's  sympathy  ! 

Be  strong,  young  man  ! — 
Lift  the  protector's  arm, — the  healer's  prayer, — 
Be  tender  in  thy  every  word  and  deed. 
A  Spirit  watcheth  thee  ! — Yes,  he  who  passed 
From  shaded  earth  up  to  the  full-orbed  day, 
Will  be  thy  witness,  in  the  court  of  heaven, 
How  thou  dost  bear  his  mantle. 

So  farewell, 
Leader  in  Israel ! — Thou  whose  radiant  path 
Was  like  the  angel's  standing  in  the  sun," 
Undazzled  and  unswerving, — it  was  meet 
That  thou  should'st  rise  to  light  without  a  cloud. 


The  Indian's  Tale. — J.  G.  Whittier. 

It  was  generally  believed  by  the  first  settlers  of  Xew  England,  that  a  mor- 
tal pestilence  had,  a  short  time  previous  to  their  arrival,  in  a  great  me^=ure 
depopulated  some  of  the  finest  portions  of  the  country  on  the  seaboard.  The 
Indians  themselves  corroborated  this  opinion,  and  gave  the  English  a  ter- 
rific description  of  the  ravages  of  the  unseen  Destroyer. 

The  war-god  did  not  wake  to  strife 

The  strong  men  of  our  forest-land  ; 
No  red  hand  grasped  the  battle-knife 

At  Areouski's  high  command  : — 
We  held  no  war-dance  by  the  dim 

And  red  light  of  the  creeping  flame  ; 


*  Revelation,  xix.  17. 
30 


350  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Nor  warrior-yell,  nor  battle-hymn, 
Upon  the  midnight  breezes  came. 

There  was  no  portent  in  the  sky, 

No  shadow  on  the  round  bright  sun ; 
With  light,  and  mirth,  and  melody, 

The  long,  fair  summer  days  came  on. 
We  were  a  happy  people  then, 

Rejoicing  in  our  hunter-mood  ; 
No  foot-prints  of  the  pale-faced  men 

Had  marred  our  forest-solitude. 

The  land  was  ours — this  glorious  land — 

With  all  its  wealth  of  wood  and  streams — 
Our  warriors  strong  of  heart  and  hand —    ' 

Our  daughters^  beautiful  as  dreams. 
When  wearied;  at  the  thirsty  noon, 

We  knelt  us  where  the  spring  gushed  up, 
To  taste  our  Father's  blessed  boon — 

Unlike  the  white  man's  poison  cup. 

There  came  unto  my  father's  hut 

A  wan,  weak  creature  of  distress ; 
The  red  man's  door  is  never  shut 

Against  the  lone  and  shelterless ; 
And  when  he  knelt  before  his  feet, 

My  father  led  the  stranger  in ; 
He  gave  him  of  his  hunter-meat — 

Alas !  it  was  a  deadly  sin ! 

The  stranger's  voice  was  not  like  ours — 

His  face  at  first  was  sadly  pale, 
Anon  'twas  like  the  yellow  flowers, 

Which  tremble  in  the  meadow  gale. 
And  when  he  him  laid  down  to  die, 

And  murmured  of  his  father-land, 
My  mother  wiped  his  tearful  eye, 

My  father  held  his  burning  hand ! 

He  died  at  last — the  funeral  yell 
Rang  upward  from  his  burial  sod, 

And  the  old  Powwah  knelt  to  tell 
The  tidings  to  the  white  man's  God ! 

The  next  day  came — my  father's  brow 
Grew  heavy  with  a  fearful  pain; 


J 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.       351 

He  did  not  take  his  hunting-bow — 
He  never  sought  the  woods  again ! 

He  died  even  as  the  white  man  died — 

My  mother,  she  was  smitten  too — 
My  sisters  vanished  from  my  side, 

Like  diamonds  from  the  sun-lit  dew. 
And  then  we  heard  the  Powwahs  say, 

That  God  had  sent  his  angel  forth, 
To  sweep  our  ancient  tribes  away, 

And  poison  and  unpeople  earth. 

And  it  was  so — from  day  to  day 

The  spirit  of  the  plague  went  on, 
And  those  at  morning  blithe  and  gay, 

Were  dying  at  the  set  of  sun. — 
They  died — our  free,  bold  hunters  died — 

The  living  might  not  give  them  graves — 
Save  when,  along  the  water-side, 

They  cast  them  to  the  hurrying  waves. 

The  carrion-crow,  the  ravenous  beast, 

Turned  loathing  from  the  ghastly  dead ; — 
Well  might  they  shun  the  funeral  feast 

By  that  destroying  angel  spread  ! 
One  after  one,  the  red  men  fell ; 

Our  gallant  war-tribe  passed  away — 
And  I  alone  am  left  to  tell 

The  story  of  its  swift  decay. 

Alone — alone — a  withered  leaf — 

Yet  clinging  to  its  naked  bough  ; 
The  pale  race  scorn  the  aged  chief, 

And  I  will  join  my  fathers  now. 
The  spirits  of  my  people  bend 

At  midnight  from  the  solemn  west, 
To  me  their  kindly  arms  extend — 

They  call  me  to  their  home  of  rest ! 


Setting  Sail. — Percival. 

He  went  amid  these  glorious  things  of  earth, 
Transient  as  glorious,  and  along  the  beach 


352  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Of  snowy  sands,  and  rounded  pebbles,  walked, 

"Watching  the  coming  of  the  evening  tide, 

Rising  with  every  ripple,  as  it  kissed 

The  gravel  with  a  softly-gurgling  sound, 

And  still  advancing  up  the  level  shore, 

Till,  in  his  deep  abstraction,  it  flowed  round 

His  foot-prints,  and  awoke  him.     When  he  came 

Where  a  long  reef  stretched  out,  and  in  its  bays, 

Scooped  from  the  shelving  rocks,  received  the  sea, 

And  held  it  as  a  mirror  deep  and  dark, 

He  paused,  and,  standing  then  against  the  ship, 

He  gave  his  signal.     Soon  he  saw  on  board 

The  stir  of  preparation ;  they  let  down 

A  boat,  and  soon  her  raised  and  dipping  oars 

Flashed  in  the  setting  light,  and  round  her  prow 

The  gilt  sea  swelled  and  crinkled,  spreading  out 

In  a  wide  circle  ;  and  she  glided  on 

Smoothly,  and  with  a  whispering  sound,  that  grew 

Louder  with  every  dipping  of  the  oars, 

Until  she  neared  the  reef,  and  sent  a  surge 

Up  through  its  coves,  and  covered  them  with  foam. 

He  stepped  on  board,  and  soon  they  bore  him  back 

To  the  scarce  rocking  vessel,  where  she  lay 

Waiting  the  night  wind.     On  the  deck  he  sat, 

And  looked  to  one  point  only,  save,  at  times, 

When  his  eye  glanced  around  the  mingled  scene 

Of  beauty  and  sublimity.     Meanwhile 

The  sun  had  set,  the  painted  sky  and  clouds 

Put  off  their  liveries,  the  bay  its  robe 

Of  brightness,  and  the  stars  were  thick  in  heaven. 

They  looked  upon  the  waters,  and  below 

Another  sky  swelled  out,  thick  set  with  stars, 

And  chequered  with  light  clouds,  which,  from  the  north, 

Came  flitting  o'er  the  dim-seen  hills,  and  shot 

Like  birds  across  the  bay.     A  distant  shade 

Dimmed  the  clear  sheet ;  it  darkened,  and  it  drew 

Nearer.     The  waveless  sea  was  seen  to  rise 

In  feathery  curls,  and  soon  it  met  the  ship, 

And  a  breeze  struck  her.     Quick  the  floating  sails 

Rose  up,  and  drooped  again.     The  wind  came  on 

Fresher ;  the  curls  were  waves ;  the  sails  were  filled 

Tensely ;  the  vessel  righted  to  her  course, 

And  ploughed  the  waters :  round  her  prow  the  foam 

Tossed,  and  went  back  along  her  polished  sides, 

And  floated  off,  bounding  the  rushing  wake, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  353 

That  seemed  to  pour  in  torrents  from  her  stern. 

The  wind  still  freshened,  and  the  sails  were  stretched, 

Till  the  yards  cracked.     She  bent  before  its  force, 

And  dipped  her  lee-side  low  beneath  the  waves. 

Straight  out  she  went  to  sea,  as  when  a  hawk 

Darts  on  a  dove,  and,  with  a  motionless  wing, 

Cuts  the  light,  yielding  air.     The  mountains  dipped 

Their  dark  wTalls  to  the  waters,  and  the  hills 

Scarce  reared  their  green  tops  o'er  them.    One  white  point, 

On  which  a  light-house  blazed,  alone  stood  out 

In  the  broad  sea ;  and  there  he  fixed  his  eye, 

Taking  his  last  look  of  his  native  shore. 

Night  wore  away,  and  still  the  wind  blew  strong, 

And  the  ship  ploughed  the  waves,  which  now  were  heaved 

In  high  and  rolling  billows.     All  were  glad, 

And  laughed,  and  shouted,  as  she  darted  on, 

And  plunged  amid  the  foam,  and  tossed  it  high 

Over  the  deck,  as  when  a  strong,  curbed  steed 

Flings  the  froth  from  him  in  his  eager  race. 

All  had  been  dimly  star-lit ;  but  the  moon, 

Late  rising,  silvered  o'er  the  tossing  sea, 

And  lighted  up  its  foam-wreaths,  and  just  threw 

One  parting  glance  upon  the  distant  shores. 

They  meet  his  eye  ;  the  sinking  rocks  wTere  bright, 

And  a  clear  line  of  silver  marked  the  hills, 

Where  he  had  said  farewell.     A  sudden  tear 

Gushed,  and  his  heart  was  melted ;  but  he  soon 

Repressed  the  weakness,  and  he  calmly  watched 

The  fading  vision.     Just  as  it  retired 

Into  the  common  darkness,  on  his  eyes 

Sleep  fell,  and,  with  his  looks  turned  to  his  home, 

And — dearer  than  his  home — to  her  he  loved, 

He  closed  them,  and  his  thoughts  were  lost  in  dreams 

Bright,  and  too  glad  to  be  realities. 

Calmly  he  slept,  and  lived  on  happy  dreams, 

Till,  from  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  sea, 

Now  spreading  far  and  wide  without  a  shore, 

The  cloudless  sun  arose,  and  he  awoke. 


Ji  JVianksgiving  Hymn. — Henry  Ware,  Jk. 

Father  of  earth  and  heaven, 
Whose  arm  upholds  creation, 
30* 


354  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

To  thee  we  raise  the  voice  of  praise, 

And  bend  in  adoration. 
We  praise  the  Power  that  made  us ; 

We  praise  the  love  that  blesses  ; 
While  every  day  that  rolls  away 

Thy  gracious  care  confesses. 

Life  is  from  thee,  blessed  Father ; 

From  thee  our  breathing;  spirits ; 
And  thou  dost  give  to  all  that  live 

The  bliss  that  each  inherits. 
Day,  night,  and  rolling  seasons, 

And  all  that  life  embraces, 
With  bliss  are  crowned,  with  joy  abound, 

And  claim  our  thankful  praises. 

Though  trial  and  affliction 

May  cast  their  dark  shade  o'er  us, 
Thy  love  doth  throw  a  heavenly  glow 

Of  light  on  all  before  us. 
That  love  has  smiled  from  heaven 

To  cheer  our  path  of  sadness, 
And  lead  the  way,  through  earth's  dull  day, 

To  realms  of  endless  gladness. 

That  light  of  love  and  glory 

Has  shone  through  Christ,  the  Savior, 
The  holy  Guide,  who  lived  and  died 

That  we  might  live  forever : 
And  since  thy  great  compassion 

Thus  brings  thy  children  near  thee, 
May  we  to  praise  devote  our  days, 

And  love  as  well  as  fear  thee. 

And  when  Death's  final  summons 

From  earth's  dear  scenes  shall  move  us, — 
From  friends,  from  foes,  from  joys,  from  woes, 

From  all  that  know  and  love  us, — 
0,  then,  let  hope  attend  us ! 

Thy  peace  to  us  be  given ! 
That  we  may  rise  above  the  skies, 

And  sing  thy  praise  in  heaven ! 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      355 


The  Temple  of  Theseus  * — James  Wallis  Eastburn. 

Uncrumbled  yet,  the  sacred  fane  uprears 
Its  brow,  majestic  in  the  storm  of  years  : 
Time  has  but  slightly  dared  to  steal  away 
The  marks  of  beauty  from  its  columns  gray ; 
Each  sculptured  capital  in  glory  stands, 
As  once  the  boast  of  those  delightful  lands, 
Nor  barbarous  hand  has  plucked  their  beauties  down, 
Some  baser  monument  of  art  to  crown. 

Girt  with  the  sculptured  deeds  achieved  of  yore, 
That  once  the  crowd  beheld  but  to  adore, 
Rich  with  the  proud  exploits  of  ^Ethra's  son, 
And  lofty  conquests  by  Alcides  won ; — 
The  splendid  pile  still  claims  the  stranger's  fear ; 
The  passing  pilgrim  pauses  to  revere ; 
The  pensive  poet  views  its  columns  proud, 
And  Fancy  hears  again  the  anthem  loud, 
From  kindling  bards,  that  once  arose  on  high, — 
A  tuneful  chorus  trembling  on  the  sky. 

The  inner  shrine  no  more  protects  the  slave, 
The  holy  walls  no  more  the  oppressed  can  save, 
The  wretch  no  longer  safety  there  can  claim, 
And  live  secure  in  Theseus'  hallowed  name  ; 
Sunk  are  his  glories  in  Oblivion's  tomb, 
His  deeds  obscured  by  centuries  of  gloom. 

To  holier  uses  rise  those  walls  on  high, 
And  holier  anthems  murmur  on  the  sky ; 
The  shrine  is  crumbled  to  its  native  soil, 
And  pagan  grandeur  given  as  a  spoil ; 
No  worshipped  Theseus  decks  that  beauteous  fane, 
And  none  to  him  prolong  the  adoring  strain ; 
Devoted  still  to  worship,  and  to  Heaven, 
To  purer  thoughts  and  holier  prayers  'tis  given. 

*  The  temple  of  Theseus  at  Athens — one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  entire 
remains  of  ancient  art — was  once  a  sanctuary  for  slaves,  and  men  who 
needed  protection.  It  is  now  dedicated  to  St.  George,  and  is  revered  by  the 
Athenians  as  much,  perhaps,  as  it  ever  was. 


356  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Oil  the  Death  of  a  beautiful  young  Girl. — 
Connecticut  Mirror. 

'Tis  ever  thus — 'tis  ever  thus  ;  when  Hope  has  built  a  bower, 
Like  that  of  Eden,  wreathed  about  with  every  thornless  flower, 
To  dwell  therein  securely,  the  self-deceiver's  trust, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  desert  comes,  and  "  all  is  in  the  dust." 

'Tis  ever  thus — 'tis  ever  thus,  that,  wiien  the  poor  heart  clings, 
With  all  its  finest  tendrils,  with  all  its  flexile  rings, 
That  goodly  thing  it  cleave th  to,  so  fondly  and  so  fast, 
Is  struck  to  earth  by  lightning,  or  shattered  by  the  blast. 

'Tis  ever  thus — 'tis  ever  thus,  with  beams  of  mortal  bliss, 
With  looks  too  bright  and  beautiful  for  such  a  world  as  this : 
One  moment  round  about  us  their  angel  lightnings  play  ; 
Then  down  the  veil  of  darkness  drops,  and  all  has  passed  away. 

'Tis  ever  thus — 'tis  ever  thus,  with  sounds  too  sweet  for  earth, 
Seraphic  sounds,  that  float  away,  borne  heavenward  in  their 

birth : 
The  golden  shell  is  broken,  the  silver  chord  is  mute, 
The  sweet  bells  are  all  silent,  and  hushed  the  lovely  lute. 

'Tis  ever  thus — His  ever  thus,  with  all  that's  best  below  : 
The  dearest,  noblest,  loveliest,  are  always  first  to  go ; — 
The  bird  that  sings  the  sweetest ;  the  vine  that  crowns  the  rock ; 
The  glory  of  the  garden ;  "  the  flower  of  the  flock." 

'Tis  ever  thus-^'tis  ever  thus,  with  creatures  heavenly  fair, 
Too  finely  framed  to  'bide  the  brunt  more  earthly  natures  bear : 
A  little  while  they  dwell  with  us,  blessed  ministers  of  love ; 
Then  spread  the  wings  we  had  not  seen,  and  seek  their  home 
above. 


Lines  to  a  Lady  of  great  musical  Talent.— Mrs.  Child. 

Thanks,  Orphea,  thanks  :  thy  magic  spell 

Has  waked  my  soul  to  sound, 
And,  deep  within  a  sealed  well, 

A  spring  of  joy  is  found. 


COMMON-PLACE    HOOK    OF    POETRY.  357 

My  ear  was  like  the  wayward  strings, 

Which  the  wild  winds  breathe  o'er; 
And  fitful  in  its  echoings 

Has  nay  spirit  been  before. 

But  something  in  my  inmost  heart 

Responds  to  each  touch  of  thine, 
And  bids  me  own  thy  wondrous  art 

The  soul  of  the  u  tuneful  Nine." 

Yes,  all  I've  dreamed  of  bright  or  fair, 

Is  but  imbodied  sound  : 
Music  is  floating  on  the  air, 

In  every  thing  around  ! 

All  Nature  hath  of  breezy  grace, 

In  motion  swift  and  free, — 
Each  lovely  hue  upon  her  face, — 

Is  living  melody. 

Well  might  thy  witchery  inspire 

The  bard's  enraptured  lay, 
And  flashes  of  prophetic  fire 

Around  thy  fingers  play  ; — 

But  vainly  would  the  haunted  king 

Have  sought  relief  from  thee  ; 
For  chained  had  been  each  demon's  wing, 

By  thy  rich  minstrelsy. 

Priestess  of  a  mighty  power, 

My  spirit  worships  thee  ; 
For  inspiration  is  thy  dower — 

Thy  voice  is  poetry. 


Hymn  for  the  two  hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Settlement 
of  Charlestown. — Pierpont.* 

Two  hundred  years  ! — two  hundred  years  ! — 
How  much  of  human  power  and  pride, 


*  There  is  uncommon  grandeur,  both  of  thought  and  expression,  in  several 
of  Mr.  Pierpont's  occasional  odes.  This  piece,  Napoleon  at  Rest,  and  the 
Hymn  at  Bunker  Hill,  are  similar  in  their  general  character,  and  all  truly 
sublime. — Ed. 


358  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

What  glorious  hopes,  what  gloomy  fears, 
Have  sunk  beneath  their  noiseless  tide  ! — 

The  red  man,  at  his  horrid  rite, 

Seen  by  the  stars  at  night's  cold  noon, — 

His  bark  canoe,  its  track  of  light 
Left  on  the  wave  beneath  the  moon  ; — 

His  dance,  his  yell,  his  counsel  fire, 
The  altar  where  his  victim  lay, 

His  death-song,  and  his  funeral  pyre, 
That  still,  strong  tide  hath  borne  away. 

And  that  pale  pilgrim  band  is  gone, 

That,  on  this  shore,  with  trembling  trod, 

Ready  to  faint,  yet  bearing  on 
The  ark  of  freedom  and  of  God. 

And  war — that,  since,  o'er  ocean  came, 
And  thundered  loud  from  yonder  hill, 

And  wrapped  its  foot  in  sheets  of  flame, 
To  blast  that  ark — its  storm  is  still. 

Chief,  sachem,  sage,  bards,  heroes,  seers, 
That  live  in  story  and  in  song, 

Time,  for  the  last  two  hundred  years, 
Has  raised,  and  shown,  and  swept  along. 

'Tis  like  a  dream  when  one  awakes — 
This  vision  of  the  scenes  of  old ; 

'Tis  like  the  moon  when  morning  breaks ; 
'Tis  like  a  tale  round  watch-fires  told. 

Then  what  are  we  ! — then  what  are  we  ! — 
Yes,  when  two  hundred  years  have  rolled 

O'er  our  green  graves,  our  names  shall  be 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that's  told. 

God  of  our  fathers, — in  whose  sight 
The  thousand  years,  that  sweep  away 

Man,  and  the  traces  of  his  might, 

Are  but  the  break  and  close  of  day, — 

Grant  us  that  love  of  truth  sublime, 
That  love  of  goodness  and  of  thee, 

That  makes  thy  children,  in  all  time, 
To  share  thine  own  eternity. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  359 


The  Family  Bible. — Anonymous. 

How  painfully  pleasing  the  fond  recollection 

Of  youthful  connexions  and  innocent  joy, 
When,  blessed  with  parental  advice  and  affection, 

Surrounded  with  mercies,  with  peace  from  on  high, 
I  still  view  the  chair  of  my  sire  and  my  mother, 

The  seats  of  their  offspring  as  ranged  on  each  hand, 
And  that  richest  of  books,  which  excelled  every  other- 

That  family  Bible,  that  lay  on  the  stand ; 
The  old- fashioned  Bible,  the  dear,  blessed  Bible, 
The  family  Bible,  that  lay  on  the  stand. 

That  Bible,  the  volume  of  God's  inspiration, 

At  morn  and  at  evening,  could  yield  us  delight, 
And  the  prayer  of  our  sire  was  a  sweet  invocation, 

For  mercy  by  day,  and  for  safety  through  night. 
Our  hymns  of  thanksgiving,  with  harmony  swelling, 

All  warm  from  the  heart  of  a  family  band, 
Half  raised  us  from  earth  to  that  rapturous  dwelling, 

Described  in  the  Bible,  that  lay  on  the  stand  ; 
That  richest  of  books,  which  excelled  every  other — 
The  family  Bible,  that  lay  on  the  stand. 

Ye  scenes  of  tranquillity,  long  have  we  parted ; 

My  hope's  almost  gone,  and  my  parents  no  more ; 
In  sorrow  and  sadness  I  live  broken-hearted, 

And  wander  unknown  on  a  far  distant  shore. 
Yet  how  can  I  doubt  a  dear  Savior's  protection, 

Forgetful  of  gifts  from  his  bountiful  hand  ! 
O,  let  me,  with  patience,  receive  his  correction, 

And  think  of  the  Bible,  that  lay  on  the  stand ; 
That  richest  of  books,  which  excelled  every  other — 
The  family  Bible,  that  lay  on  the  stand. 


The  Notes  of  the  Birds. — I.  McLellan,  Jun. 

Well  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gayly  in  Spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  the  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  Summer-time, 
And  in  red  Autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 


360  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

If  thou  art  pained  with  the  world's  noisy  stir, 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  and  weighed  down 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life  ; 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far  distant  land 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike, — 
Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 
The  thrilling  music  of  the  forest  birds. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir !     The  unquiet  finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wren 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  time's, 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps  half  hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dog-wood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  blue  jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree, 
And,  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  Spring,  the  robin  comes ; 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  withered  nest.     But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  red-stemmed  hazel's  slender  twig, 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  Autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest  field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves, — then  peals  abroad 
The  blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watch-place  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  corn-field  edge. 

Lone  whippoorwill, 
There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Ofttimes,  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  361 

And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still : 

And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 

And  to  the  herds,  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 

To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 

No  eye,  save  thine,  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 

I  hear  thee  oft  at  midnight,  when  the  thrush 

And  the  green,  roving  linnet  are  at  rest, 

And  the  blithe,  twittering  swallows  have  long  ceased 

Their  noisy  note,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current  mines 
The  forest's  blackened  roots,  and  whose  green  marge 
Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot, 
The  lonely  heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath  silence  of  the  wilderness  : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool, 
Or  brooding  gloomily  on  the  time-stained  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep  and  heavy  boom, 
Gray  watcher  of  the  waters  !     Thou  art  king 
Of  the  blue  lake  ;  and  all  the  winged  kind 
Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 
How  bright  thy  savage  eye  !  Thou  lookest  down, 
And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide  ; 
And,  poising  thy  gray  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 
Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 
Ofttimes  I  see  thee,  through  the  curling  mist, 
Dart,  like  a  spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 
Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 
Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now,  would'st  thou,  0  man,  delight  the  ear 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  ?     Then  pass  forth, 
And  find  them  midst  those  many-colored  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  Beauty's  ruby  lip. 
31 


362  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Sentimental  Music. — F.  G.  Halleck. 

Sounds  as  of  far  off  bells  came  on  his  ears  ; 
He  fancied  'twas  the  music  of  the  spheres ; 
He  was  mistaken ;  it  was  no  such  thing ; 

'Twas  Yankee  Doodle,  played  by  Scudder's  band. 
He  muttered,  as  he  lingered,  listening, 

Something  of  freedom,  and  our  happy  land; 
Then  sketched,  as  to  his  home  he  hurried  fast, 
This  sentimental  song, — his  saddest,  and  his  last:  — 

"  Young  thoughts  have  music  in  them,  love 

And  happiness  their  theme  ; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  there  are  angel  voices  heard, 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours, 
When  life  is  but  an  April  day, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers. 

"  There's  music  in  the  forest  leaves 

When  summer  winds  are  there, 
And  in  the  laugh  of  forest  girls 

That  braid  their  sunny  hair. 
The  first  wild  bird  that  drinks  the  dew 

From  violets  of  the  spring, 
Has  music  in  his  song,  and  in 

The  fluttering  of  his  wing. 

"  There's  music  in  the  dash  of  waves, 

When  the  swift  bark  cleaves  their  foam  ; 
There's  music  heard  upon  her  deck — 

The  mariner's  song  of  home — 
When  moon  and  star-beams,  smiling,  meet, 

At  midnight,  on  the  sea  ; 
And  there  is  music  once  a  week 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 

"  But  the  music  of  young  thoughts  too  soon 

Is  faint,  and  dies  away, 
And  from  our  morning  dreams  we  wake 

To  curse  the  coming  day. 
And  childhood's  frolic  hours  are  brief, 

And  oft,  in  after  years, 
Their  memory  comes  to  chill  the  heart, 

And  dim  the  eye  with  tears. 


I 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  363 

1  To-day  the  forest  leaves  are  green ; 

They'll  wither  on  the  morrow, 
And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  changed,  ere  long, 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Come  with  the  winter  snows,  and  ask 

Where  are  the  forest  birds ; 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one, 

More  eloquent  than  words. 

i  The  moonlight  music  of  the  waves 

In  storms  is  heard  no  more, 
When  the  livid  lightning  mocks  the  wreck 

At  midnight  on  the  shore  ; 
And  the  mariner's  song  of  home  has  ceased — 

His  corse  is  on  the  sea ; 
And  music  ceases,  when  it  rains, 

In  Scudder's  balcony." 


The  Silk-  Worm.— Mrs.  Hale. 

There  is  no  form  upon  our  earth, 
That  bears  the  mighty  Maker's  seal, 

But  has  some  charm  :  to  draw  this  forth, 
We  need  but  hearts  to  feel. 

.1  saw  a  fair  young  girl — her  face 

Was  sweet  as  dream  of  cherished  friend — 
Just  at  the  age  when  childhood's  grace 

And  maiden  softness  blend. 

A  silk-worm  in  her  hand  she  laid ; 

Nor  fear,  nor  yet  disgust,  was  stirred ; 
But  gayly  with  her  charge  she  played, 

As  'twere  a  nestling  bird. 

She  raised  it  to  her  dimpled  cheek, 
And  let  it  rest  and  revel  there  : 

O,  why  for  outward  beauty  seek ! 
Love  makes  its  favorites  fair. 

That  worm — I  should  have  shrunk,  in  truth, 
To  feel  the  reptile  o'er  me  move, — 


364      COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY. 

But,  loved  by  innocence  and  youth, 
I  deemed  it  worthy  love. 

Would  we,  I  thought,  the  soul  imbue, 
In  early  life,  with  sympathies 

For  every  harmless  thing,  and  view 
Such  creatures  formed  to  please, — 

And,  when  with  usefulness  combined, 
Gives  them  our  love  and  gentle  care, — 

O,  we  might  have  a  world  as  kind 
As  God  has  made  it  fair ! 

There  is  no  form  upon  our  earth, 
That  bears  the  mighty  Maker's  seal, 

But  has  some  charm  :-to  call  this  forth, 
We  need  but  hearts  to  feel. 


The  Reverie.    Written  from  College  on  the  Birth-Day  of  the 
Author's  Mother. — Frisbie. 

No  lights !  they  break  the  spell ; — away  ! 
Let  Fancy  have  her  wildest  play, 
And,  by  the  woodiire's  cheery  gleam, 
Sit  musing  on  her  favorite  theme, — 
The  dear  domestic  group,  that  meet, 
This  happy  day,  once  more  to  greet, 
With  heartfelt  warmth,  and  honest  glee, 
And  infantile  festivity. 

O,  as  yon  mirror's  polished  frame 
Catches  by  fits  the  dying  flame, 
And  indistinctly  shows  the  moon 
Half-shrouded  in  a  glimmering  gloom, — 
O,  could  some  wizard  wave  his  wand, 
And  show  me  then  the  happy  band  ! 
— 'Tis  done  :  like  summer  clouds  that  pass 
At  noontide  o'er  the  sunny  grass, 
From  the  dark  mirror  flits  away 
The  scene,  in  broken  disarray, 
And  lo,  to  Fancy's  charmed  eyes 
The  gay  illusion  seems  to  rise. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  365 

I  see  thee,  dearest  mother,  there, 
In  thine  old-fashioned  elbow-chair, 
Thy  knitting  for  a  while  laid  by 
To  watch  the  children's  revelry  ; 
And  her,  I  see  her,  by  thy  side, 
Who  marks  them  with  a  mother's  pride, 
Shares  all  their  griefs,  and  all  their  joys, 
And  lives  but  in  her  favorite  boys. 
They  now  on  pictured  story  pore, 
Still  pleased,  so  often  pleased  before  ; 
Now  lisp  (their  accents  meet  my  ear) 
The  infant  hymn  thou  lov'st  to  hear. 
And  now  they  join  in  frolic  play, 
And  all  are  noisy,  all  are  gay, 
And  health  and  innocency  speak 
In  every  plump  and  rosy  cheek. 
Ah  me  !   what  buoyant  spirits  there  ! 
No  thought,  no  sorrow,  and  no  care  : 
That  Age  might  for  a  while  throw  by 
Its  wrinkles  and  its  gravity, 
And  e'en  Philosophy  might  stoop, 
To  mingle  with  the  frolic  group. — 
And  now — 'tis  silence  all,  and  gloom, 
And  my  own  solitary  room. 


The  SouVs  Defiance* — Anonymous. 

I  said  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm, 

That  beat  against  my  breast, 
Rage  on — thou  may'st  destroy  this  form, 

And  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 
But  still  the  spirit,  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high, 

Undaunted,  on  its  fury  looks 

With  steadfast  eye. 


♦This  poem  was  written  many  years  ago,  by  a  lady,  and  written  from 
experience  and  feeling.     There  is  a  very  remarkable  grandeur  and  power  in 
the  sentiments,  sustained,  as  they  are,  by  an  energy  of  expression  well  suit- 
ed to  the  spirit's  undaunted  defiance  of  misfortune. — Ed. 
31* 


366  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

I  said  to  Penury's  meagre  train, 
Come  on — your  threats  I  brave  ; 

My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 
And  crush  me  to  the  grave  ; 

Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures, 
Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 

And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 
With  bitter  smile. 

I  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Pass  on — I  heed  you  not ; 
Ye  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit,  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles, 
Draws  from  its  own»nobility 
Its  high-born  smiles. 

I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 
Strike  deep — my  heart  shall  bear ; 

Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  wo 
To  those  already  there  ; 

Yet  still  the  spirit,  that  sustains 
This  last  severe  distress, 

Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 
And  scorn  redress. 

I  said  to  Death's  uplifted  dart, 

Aim  sure — O,  why  delay  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart— 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey  ; 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Triumphant  in  the  last  dismay, 
Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity, 

Shall  smiling  pass  away 


Hymn  for  the  second  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  City  of 
Boston. — J.  Pierpont. 

Break  forth  in  song,  ye  trees, 
As  through  your  tops  the  breeze 
Sweeps  from  the  sea  ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  367 

For  on  its  rushing  wings, 
To  your  cool  shades  and  springs, 
That  breeze  a  people  brings, 
Exiled,  though  free. 

Ye  sister  hills,  lay  down 
Of  ancient  oaks  your  crown, 

In  homage  due : 
These  are  the  great  of  earth, — 
Great,  not  by  kingly  birth, 
Great,  in  their  well  proved  worth, 

Firm  hearts  and  true. 

These  are  the  living  lights, 

That,  from  your  bold  green  heights, 

Shall  shine  afar, 
Till  they  who  name  the  name 
Of  Freedom,  toward  the  flame 
Come,  as  the  Magi  came 

Toward  Bethlehem's  star. 

Gone  are  those  great  and  good, 
Who  here,  in  peril,  stood 

And  raised  their  hymn. 
Peace  to  the  reverend  dead ! 
The  light,  that  on  their  head 
Two  hundred  years  have  shed, 

Shall  ne'er  grow  dim. 

Ye  temples,  that,  to  God, 
Rise  where  our  fathers  trod, 

Guard  well  your  trust — 
The  faith,  that  dared  the  sea, 
The  truth,  that  made  them  free, 
Their  cherished  purity, 

Their  garnered  dust. 

Thou  high  and  holy  One, 
Whose  care  for  sire  and  son 

All  nature  fills, 
While  day  shall  break  and  close, 
While  night  her  crescent  shows, 
O,  let  thy  light  repose 

On  these  our  hills. 


368  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


Napoleon  at  Rest. — J.  Pierpont. 

His  falchion  waved  along  the  Nile, 
His  host  he  led  through  Alpine  snows ; 

O'er  Moscow's  towers,  that  blazed  the  while, 
His  eagle-flag  unrolled — and  froze  ! 

Here  sleeps  he  now,  alone  ! — not  one, 
Of  all  the  kings  whose  crowns  he  gave, 

Bends  o'er  his  dust ;  nor  wife  nor  son 
Has  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 

Behind  the  sea-girt  rock,  the  star 

That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown 

Has  sunk,  and  nations  from  afar 
Gazed  as  it  faded  and  "went  down. 

High  is  his  tomb  :  the  ocean  flood, 
Far,  far  below,  by  storms  is  curled — 

As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 
A  stormy  and  unstable  world. 

Alone  he  sleeps :  the  mountain  cloud, 

That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 

Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud 

That  wraps  the  conqueror's  clay  in  death. 

Pause  here  !     The  far  off  world  at  last 

Breathes  free ;    the  hand  that  shook  its  thrones, 

And  to  the  earth  its  mitres  cast, 

Lies  powerless  now  beneath  these  stones. 

Hark !     Comes  there  from  the  pyramids, 

And  from  Siberian  wastes  of  snow, 
And  Europe's  hills,  a  voice  that  bids 

The  world  be  awed  to  mourn  him  ? — No ! 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge 

That's  heard  here  is  the  sea-bird's  cry — 
The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, 

The  clouds'  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  369 


The  Death  of  JVapoleon, — I.  McLellan,Jun. 

"The  fifth  of  May  came  amid  wind  and  rain.  Napoleon's  passing  spirit 
was  deliriously  engaged  in  a  strife  more  terrible  than  the  elements  around. 
The  words  '  tete  d'armec,'  (head  of  the  army,)  the  last  which  escaped  from 
his  lips,  intimated  that  his  thoughts  were  watching  the  current  of  a  heady 
fight.  About  eleven  minutes  before  six  in  the  evening,  Kapoleon  expired." 
— ScoWs  Life  of  Napoleon. 

Wild  was  the  night;  yet  a  wilder  night 

Hung  round  the  soldier's  pillow  ; 
In  his  bosom  there  waged  a  fiercer  fight 

Than  the  fight  on  the  wrathful  billow. 

A  few  fond  mourners  were  kneeling  by, 
The  tew  that  his  stern  heart  cherished ; 

They  knew,  by  his  glazed  and  unearthly  eye, 
That  life  had  nearly  perished. 

They  knew  by  his  awful  and  kingly  look, 

By  the  order  hastily  spoken, 
That  he  dreamed  of  days  when  the  nations  shook, 

And  the  nations'  hosts  were  broken. 

He  dreamed  that  the  Frenchman's  sword  still  slew, 
And  triumphed  the  Frenchman's  *  eagle ;' 

And  the  struggling  Austrian  fled  anew, 
Like  the  hare  before  the  beagle. 

The  bearded  Russian  he  scourged  again, 

The  Prussian's  camp  was  routed, 
And  again,  on  the  hills  of  haughty  Spain, 

His  mighty  armies  shouted. 

Over  Egypt's  sands,  over  Alpine  snows, 

At  the  pyramids,  at  the  mountain, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  lordly  Danube  flows, 

And  by  the  Italian  fountain, 

On  the  snowy  cliffs,  where  mountain-streams 

Dash  by  the  Switzer's  dwelling, 
He  led  again,  in  his  dying  dreams, 

His  hosts,  the  broad  earth  quelling. 


370  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Again  Marengo's  field  was  won, 

And  Jena's  bloody  battle  ; 
Again  the  world  was  overrun, 

Made  pale  at  his  cannons'  rattle. 

He  died  at  the  close  of  that  darksome  day, 

A  day  that  shall  live  in  story : 
In  the  rocky  land  they  placed  his  clay, 

*  And  left  him  alone  with  his  glory.' 


Jerusalem. — Brainard. 

"  A  severe  earthquake  is  said  to.  have  taken  place  at  Jerusalem,  which 
has  destroyed  great  part  of  that  city,  shaken  down  the  Mosque  of  Omar, 
and  reduced  the  Holy  Sepulchre  to  ruins  from  top  to  bottom." — New  York 

Mercantile  Advertiser. 

Four  lamps  were  burning  o'er  two  mighty  graves — 
Godfrey's  and  Baldwin's — Salem's  Christian  kings — 

And  holy  light  glanced  from  Helena's  naves, 
Fed  with  the  incense  which  the  pilgrim  brings, — 
While  through  the  panelled  roof  the  cedar  flings 

Its  sainted  arms  o'er  choir,  and  roof,  and  dome, 
And  every  porphyry-pillared  cloister  rings 

To  every  kneeler  there  its  "  welcome  home," 

As  every  lip  breathes  out,  "  O  Lord,  thy  kingdom  come." 

A  mosque  was  garnished  with  its  crescent  moons, 
And  a  clear  voice  called  Mussulmans  to  prayer. 

There  were  the  splendors  of  Judea's  thrones — 

There  were  the  trophies  which  its  conquerors  wear- 
All  but  the  truth,  the  holy  truth,  was  there  : — 

For  there,  with  lip  profane,  the  crier  stood, 

And  him  from  the  tall  minaret  you  might  hear, 

Singing  to  all,  whose  steps  had  thither  trod, 

That  verse,  misunderstood,  "  There  is  no  God  but  God  " 

Hark !  did  the  pilgrim  tremble  as  he  kneeled  ? 

And  did  the  turbaned  Turk  his  sins  confess  ? 
Those  mighty  hands,  the  elements  that  wield, 

That  mighty  power,  that  knows  to  curse  or  bless, 

Is  over  all ;  and  in  whatever  dress 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  371 

His  suppliants  crowd  around  him,  He  can  see 

Their  heart,  in  city  or  in  wilderness, 
And  probe  its  core,  and  make  its  blindness  see 
That  He  is  very  God,  the  only  Deity. 

There  was  an  earthquake  once,  that  rent  thy  fane, 

Proud  Julian  ;  when  (against  the  prophecy 
Of  Him  who  lived,  and  died,  and  rose  again, 

"  That  one  stone  on  another  should  not  lie,") 

Thou  would'st  rebuild  that  Jewish  masonry, 
To  mock  the  eternal  word. — The  earth  below 

Gushed  out  in  fire ;  and  from  the  brazen  sky, 
And  from  the  boiling  seas,  such  wrath  did  flow, 
As  saw  not  Shinar's  plain,  nor  Babel's  overthrow. 

Another  earthquake  comes.     Dome,  roof  and  wall 

Tremble  ;  and  headlong  to  the  grassy  bank, 
And  in  the  muddied  stream,  the  fragments  fall, 

While  the  rent  chasm  spread  its  jaws,  and  drank, 

At  one  huge  draught,  the  sediment,  which  sank 
In  Salem's  drained  goblet.     Mighty  Power ! 

Thou  whom  we  all  should  worship,  praise,  and  thank, 
Where  was  thy  mercy  in  that  awful  hour, 
WThen  hell  moved  from  beneath,  and  thine  own  heaven  did 
lower  ? 

Say,  Pilate's  palaces — say,  proud  Herod's  towers — 

Say,  gate  of  Bethlehem — did  your  arches  quake  ? 
Thy  pool,  Bethesda,  was  it  filled  with  showers? 

Calm  Gihon,  did  the  jar  thy  waters  wake  ? 

Tomb  of  thee,  Mary — Virgin — did  it  shake  ? 
Glowed  thy  bought  field,  Aceldema,  with  blood  ? 

Where  were  the  shudderings  Calvary  might  make  ? 
Did  sainted  Mount  Moriah  send  a  flood, 
To  wash  away  the  spot  where  once  a  God  had  stood  ? 

Lost  Salem  of  the  Jews — great  sepulchre 

Of  all  profane  and  of  all  holy  things — 
Where  Jew,  and  Turk,  and  Gentile  yet  concur 

To  make  thee  what  thou  art !  thy  history  brings 

Thoughts  mixed  of  joy  and  wo.     The  whole  earth  ring9 
Writh  the  sad  truth  which  He  has  prophesied, 

WTho  would  have  sheltered  with  his  holy  wings 
Thee  and  thy  children.     You  his  power  defied: 
You  scourged  him  while  he  lived,  and  mocked  him  as  he  died  ! 


372  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY 

There  is  a  star  in  the  untroubled  sky, 

That  caught  the  first  light  which  its  Maker  made — 
It  led  the  hymn  of  other  orbs  on  high ; 

'Twill  shine  when  all  the  fires  of  heaven  shall  fade. 

Pilgrims  at  Salem's  porch,  be  that  your  aid ! 
For  it  has  kept  its  watch  on  Palestine  ! 

Look  to  its  holy  light,  nor  be  dismayed, 
Though  broken  is  each  consecrated  shrine, 
Though  crushed  and  ruined  all — which  men  have  called  divine. 

Note. — Godfrey  and  Baldwin  were  the  first  Christian  kings  at  Jerusalem. 
The  empress  Helena,  mother  of  Constantine  the  Great,  built  the  church  of 
the  sepulchre  on  Mount  Calvary.  The  walls  are  of  stone,  and  the  roof  of 
cedar.  The  four  lamps  which  light  it  are  very  costly.  It  is  kept  in  repair 
by  the  offerings  of  pilgrims  who  resort  to  it.  The  mosque  was  originally  a 
Jewish  temple.  The  emperor  Julian  undertook  to  rebuild  the  temple  of  Je- 
rusalem at  very  great  expense,  to  disprove  the  prophecy  of  our  Savior,  as  it 
was  understood  by  the  Jews  ;  but  the  work  a>id  the  workmen  were  destroyed 
by  an  earthquake.  The  pools  of  Bethesda  and  Gihon — the  tomb  of  the  Vir- 
gin Mary,  and  of  king  Jehoshaphat — the  pillar  of  Absalom — the  tomb  of 
Zachariah — and  the  campo  santo,  or  holy  field,  which  is  supposed  to  have 
been  purchased  with  the  price  of  Judas'  treason — are,  or  were  lately,  the 
most  interesting  parts  of  Jerusalem. 


The  Angler's  Song. — I.  McLellan,Jun. 

"  There  is  no    life  more   pleasant  than  the  life  of  the  well-governed 
angler." — Isaac  Walton. 

When  first  the  flame  of  day 

Crimsons  the  sea-like  mist, 
And  from  the  valley  rolls  away 

The  haze,  by  the  sunbeam  kissed, 
Then  to  the  lonely  woods  I  pass, 

With  angling  rod  and  line, 
While  yet  the  dew-drops,  in  the  grass, 

Like  flashing  diamonds  shine. 

How  vast  the  mossy  forest-halls, 

Silent,  and  full  of  gloom  ! 
Through  the  high  roof  the  daybeam  falls, 

Like  torch-light  in  a  tomb. 
The  old  trunks  of  trees  rise  round 

Like  pillars  in  a  church  of  old, 
And  the  wind  fills  them  with  a  sound 

As  if  a  bell  were  tolled. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  373 

Where  falls  the  noisy  stream, 

In  many  a  bubble  bright, 
Along  whose  grassy  margin  gleam 

Flowers  gaudy  to  the  sight, 
There  silently  I  stand, 

Watching  my  angle  play, 
And  eagerly  draw  to  the  land 

My  speckled  prey. 

Oft,  ere  the  carrion  bird  has  left 

His  eyrie,  the  dead  tree, 
Or  ere  the  eagle's  wing  hath  cleft 

The  cloud  in  heaven's  blue  sea, 
Or  ere  the  lark's  swift  pinion  speeds 

To  meet  the  misty  day, 
My  foot  hath  shaken  the  bending  reeds, 

My  rod  sought  out  its  prey. 

And  when  the  Twilight,  with  a  blush 

Upon  her  cheek,  goes  by, 
And  Evening's  universal  hush 

Fills  all  the  darkened  sky, 
And  steadily  the  tapers  burn 

In  villages  far  away, 
Then  from  the  lonely  stream  I  turn 

And  from  the  forests  gray. 


Who  is  my  Neighbor? — Anonymous. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     It  is  he  whom  thou 

Hast  power  to  aid  and  bless, 
Whose  aching  heart  or  burning  brow 

Thy  soothing  hand  may  press. 

Thy  neighbor  ?    'Tis  the  fainting  poor, 

Whose  eye  with  want  is  dim, 
Whom  hunger  sends  from  door  to  door, — 

Go  thou,  and  succor  him. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     'Tis  that  weary  man, 
Whose  years  are  at  their  brim, 

Bent  low  with  sickness,  cares  and  pain : — 
Go  thou,  and  comfort  him. 
32 


374  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     'Tis  the  heart  bereft 

Of  every  earthly  gem  ; 
Widow  and  orphan,  helpless  left : — 

Go  thou,  and  shelter  them. 

Thy  neighbor  ?  Yonder  toiling  slave, 
Fettered  in  thought  and  limb, 

Whose  hopes  are  all  beyond  the  grave, — 
Go  thou  and  ransom  him. 

Whene'er  thou  meet'st  a  human  form 

Less  favored  than  thine  own, 
Remember  'tis  thy  neighbor  worm, 

Thy  brother,  or  thy  son. 

Oh,  pass  not,  pass  not  heedless  by  ; 

Perhaps  thou  canst  redeem 
The  breaking  heart  from  misery : — 

Go,  share  thy  lot  with  him. 


Hymn.     Matthew,  xxvi.  6 — 13. — Christian-  Mirror. 

She  loved  her  Savior,  and  to  him 

Her  costliest  present  brought ; 
To  crown  his  head,  or  grace  his  name, 

No  gift  too  rare  she  thought. 

And  tYiougn  toe  prudent  worldling  frowned, 

And  thought  the  poor  bereft, 
Christ's  humble  friend  sweet  comfort  found, 

For  he  approved  the  gift. 

So  let  the  Savior  be  adored, 

And  not  the  poor  despised  ; 
Give  to  the  hungry  from  your  hoard, 

But  all,  give  all  to  Christ. 


The  poor  are  always  with  us  here- 
'Tis  our  great  Father's  plan, 

That  mutual  wants  and  mutual  care 
May  bind  us,  man  to  man. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  375 

Go.  clothe  the  naked,  lead  the  blind, 

Give  to  the  weary  rest ; 
For  Sorrow's  children  comfort  find, 

And  help  for  all  distressed  ; — 

But  give  to  Christ  alone  thy  heart, 

Thy  faith,  thy  love  supreme  ; 
Then  for  his  sake  thine  alms  impart, 

And  so  give  all  to  Him. 


Broken-hearted,  weep  no  raore.^-EpiscoPAL  Watchman. 

Broken-hearted,  weep  no  more  ! 

Hear  what  comfort  He  hath  spoken, 
Smoking  flax  who  ne'er  hath  quenched, 
Bruised  reed  who  ne'er  hath  broken  : — 
"  Ye  who  wander  here  below, 
Heavy  laden  as  you  go, 
Come,  with  grief,  with  sin  oppressed, 
Come  to  me,  and  be  at  rest !" 

Lamb  of  Jesus'  blood-bought  flock, 

Brought  again  from  sin  and  straying, 
Hear  the  Shepherd's  gentle  voice — 
'Tis  a  true  and  faithful  saying  : — 
"  Greater  love  how  can  there  be 
Than  to  yield  up  life  for  thee  ? 
Bought  with  pang,  and  tear,  and  sigh, 
Turn  and  live  ! — why  will  ye  die  !" 

Broken-hearted,  weep  no  more  ! 

Far  from  consolation  flying  ; 
He  who  calls  hath  felt  thy  wound, 

Seen  thy  weeping,  heard  thy  sighing : — 
"  Bring  thy  broken  heart  to  me  5 
Welcome  offering  it  shall  be  ; 
Streaming  tears  and  bursting  sighs, 
Mine  accepted  sacrifice." 


376  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 


The  Sweet  Brier. — Braiivard. 

Our  sweet  autumnal  western-scented  wind 
Robs  of  its  odors  none  so  sweet. a  flower, 
In  all  the  blooming  waste  it  left  behind, 
As  that  the  sweet  brier  yields  it ;  and  the  shower 
Wets  not  a  rose  that  buds  in  beauty's  bower 
One  half  so  lovely ;  yet  it  grows  along 
The  poor  girl's  path- way,  by  the  poor  man's  door. 
Such  are  the  simple  folks  it  dwells  among ; 
And  humble  as  the  bud,  so  humble  be  the  song. 

I  love  it,  for  it  takes  its  untouched  stand 
Not  in  the  vase  that  sculptors  decorate  ; 
Its  sweetness  all  is  of  my  native  land ; 
And  e'en  its  fragrant  leaf  has  not  its  mate 
Among  the  perfumes  which  the  rich  and  great 
Buy  from  the  odors  of  the  spicy  East. 
You  love  your  flowers  and  plants,  and  will  you  hate 
The  little  four-leaved  rose  that  I  love  best, 
That  freshest  will  awake,  and  sweetest  go  to  rest? 


Mother,  what  is  Death? — Mrs.  Gilman. 

"  Mother,  how  still  the  baby  lies ! 

I  cannot  hear  his  breath  ; 
I  cannot  see  his  laughing  eyes — 

They  tell  me  this  is  death. 

My  little  work  I  thought  to  bring, 

And  sat  down  by  his  bed, 
And  pleasantly  I  tried  to  sing — 

They  hushed  me — he  is  dead. 

They  say  that  he  again  will  rise, 

More  beautiful  than  now ; 
That  God  will  bless  him  in  the  skies — 

O,  mother,  tell  me  how  !" 

"  Daughter,  do  you  remember,  dear, 
The  cold,  dark  thing  you  brought, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  377 

And  laid  upon  the  casement  here, — 
A  withered  worm,  you  thought  ? 

I  told  you  that  Almighty  power 

Could  break  that  withered  shell, 
And  show  you,  in  a  future  hour, 

Something  would  please  you  well. 

Look  at  the  chrysalis,  my  love, — 

An  empty  shell  it  lies  ; — 
Now  raise  your  wondering  glance  above, 

To  where  yon  insect  flies!" 

"  O,  yes,  mamma  !  how  very  gay 

Its  wings  of  starry  gold  ! 
And  see  !  it  lightly  flies  away 

Beyond  my  gentle  hold. 

O,  mother,  now  I  know  full  well, 

If  God  that  worm  can  change, 
And  draw  it  from  this  broken  cell, 

On  golden  wings  to  range, — 

How  beautiful  will  brother  be, 

When  God  shall  give  him  wings, 
Above  this  dying  world  to  flee, 

And  live  with  heavenly  things!" 


Last  Prayers. — Mary  Ann  Browne. 

"  O,  true  and  fervent  are  the  prayers  that  breathe 
Forth  from  a  lip  that  fades  with  coming  death." 

I  am  not  what  I  was  : 
My  heart  is  withered,  and  my  feelings  wasted ; 
They  sprung  too  early,  like  the  tender  grass 

That  by  spring-frost  is  blasted. 

But  thou  wilt  not  believe 
How  very  soon  my  heart-task  will  be  o'er 
My  heart,  whose  feelings  never  can  deceive, 

Is  withered  at  its  core. 
32* 


378  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    TOETRY. 

I  know  the  blight  is  there, 
And  slowly  it  is  spreading  in  my  youth  j 
And  ever  and  anon  some  silver  hair 

Proclaims  that  this  is  truth. 

And  trembles  every  limb, 
As  never  trembled  they  in  happier  years, 
And  with  a  mist  my  eyes  are  ofttimes  dim, 

Yet  not  a  mist  of  tears. 

Thou  dost  not  know,  when  pale 
My  cheek  appears,  that  to  my  heart  the  blood 
Hath  rushed  like  lava,  when  a  sudden  gale 

Of  terror  sweeps  its  flood. 

O,  from  the  laughing  earth, 
And  all  its  glorious  things,  I  could  depart, 
Nor  wish  to  call  one  lasting  impress  forth, 

Save  in  thy  precious  heart. 

Yet  come  not  when  the  drear 
Last  hour  of  life  is  passing  over  me  ; 
I  cannot  yield  my  breath  if  thou  art  near, 

To  bid  me  live  for  thee. 

But  come  when  I  am  dead : 
No  terror  shall  be  pictured  on  my  face  ; 
I  shall  lie  calm  on  my  last  mortal  bed, 

Without  one  passion's  trace. 

And  come  thou  to  my  grave : 
Ay,  promise  that :  come  on  some  beauteous  morn, 
When  lightly  in  the  breeze  the  willows  wave, 

And  spring's  first  flowers  are  born  ; 

Or  on  a  summer's  eve, 
When  the  rich  snowy  wreaths  of  clouds  are  turned 
To  crimson  in  the  west,  when  waters  heave 

As  if  they  lived  and  burned ; 

Or  in  the  solemn  night, 
When  there's  a  hush  upon  the  heavens  and  deep, 
And  when  the  earth  is  bathed  in  starry  light, 

O,  come  thou  there,  and  weep. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  379 

Weep  yet  not  bitter  tears ; 
Let  them  be  holy,  silent,  free  from  pain : 
Think  of  me  as  a  bird  who,  many  years, 

Was  in  a  galling  chain ; 

A  chain  that  let  it  gaze 
On  the  earth's  lovely  things,  and  yet,  whene'er 
It  strove  to  rush  away,  or  fondly  raise 

Its  wing,  still  bound  it  there. 

And  bring  sometimes  a  flower 
To  scatter  on  the  turf  I  lie  beneath, 
And  gather  it  in  that  beloved  bower 

That  round  us  used  to  wreathe. 

And  whatsoe'er  the  time 
Thou  comest, — at  the  morn,  or  eve,  or  night, 
When  dewdrops  glisten,  when  the  faint  bells  chime, 

Or  in  the  moon's  pale  light, — 

Still  keep  this  thought,  (for  sweet 
It  was  to  me  when  such  bright  hope  was  given,) 
That  the  dear  hour  shall  come  when  we  shall  meet, 

Ay,  surely  meet,  in  heaven. 


A  Noon  Scene. — Bryant. 

The  quiet  August  noon  is  come ; 

A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  sky, 
The  fields  are  still,  the  woods  are  dumb, 

In  glassy  sleep  the  waters  lie. 

And  mark  yon  soft  white  clouds,  that  rest 
Above  our  vale,  a  moveless  throng ; 

The  cattle  on  the  mountain's  breast 
Enjoy  the  grateful  shadow  long. 

O,  how  unlike  those  merry  hours 

In  sunny  June,  when  earth  laughs  out; 

When  the  fresh  winds  make  love  to  flowers, 
And  woodlands  sing  and  waters  shout ! — 


380  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

When  in  the  grass  sweet  waters  talk, 
And  strains  of  tiny  music  swell 

From  every  moss-cup  of  the  rock, 
From  every  nameless  blossom's  bell ! 

But  now,  a  joy  too  deep  for  sound, 
A  peace  no  other  season  knows, 

Hushes  the  heavens,  and  wraps  the  ground- 
The  blessing  of  supreme  repose. 

Away !  I  will  not  be,  to-day, 
The  only  slave  of  toil  and  care  ; 

Away  from  desk  and  dust,  away ! 
I'll  be  as  idle  as  the  air. 

Beneath  the  open  sky  abroad, 

Among  the  plants  and  breathing  things, 

The  sinless,  peaceful  works  of  God, 
I'll  share  the  calm  the  season  brings. 

Come  thou,  in  whose  soft  eyes  I  see 
The  gentle  meaning  of  the  heart, 

One  day  amid  the  woods  with  thee, 
From  men  and  all  their  cares  apart. 

And  where,  upon  the  meadow's  breast, 
The  shadow  of  the  thicket  lies, 

The  blue  wild  flowers  thou  gatherest 
Shall  glow  yet  deeper  near  thine  eyes. 

Come — and  when,  amid  the  calm  profound, 
I  turn,  those  gentle  eyes  to  seek, 

They,  like  the  lovely  landscape  round, 
Of  innocence  and  peace  shall  speak. 

Rest  here,  beneath  the  unmoving  shade, 
And  on  the  silent  valleys  gaze, 

Winding  and  widening  till  they  fade 
In  yon  soft  ring  of  summer  haze. 

The  village  trees  their  summits  rear 
Still  as  its  spire  ;  and  yonder  flock, 

At  rest  in  those  calm  fields,  appear 
As  chiselled  from  the  lifeless  rock. 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  'JS1 

One  tranquil  mount  the  scene  overlooks, 

Where  the  hushed  winds  their  sabbath  keep, 

While  a  near  hum,  from  bees  and  brooks, 
Comes  faintly  like  the  breath  of  sleep. 

Well  might  the  gazer  deem,  that  when, 

Worn  with  the  struggle  and  the  strife, 
And  heart-sick  at  the  sons  of  men, 

The  good  forsake  the  scenes  of  life, — 

Like  the  deep  quiet,  that  awhile 

Lingers  the  lovely  landscape  o'er, 
Shall  be  the  peace  whose  holy  smile 

Welcomes  them  to  a  happier  shore. 


New  England's  Dead. — I.  McLellaNjJun. 

il  I  shall  enter  on  no  encomium  upon  Massachusetts  ;  she  needs  none. 
There  she  is  ;  behold  her,  and  judge  for  yourselves. — There  is  her  history. 
The  world  know  it  by  heart.  The  past,  at  least,  is  secure.  There  is  Bos- 
ton, and  Concord,  and  Lexington,  and  Bunker  Hill ;  and  there  they  will  re- 
main forever.  The  bones  of  her  sons,  falling  in  the  great  struggle  for  inde- 
pendence, now  lie  mingled  with  the  soil  of  every  state,  from  New  England 
to  Georgia  ;  and  there  they  will  remain  forever." — Webster^s  Speech. 

New  England's  dead  !  New  England's  dead  ! 

On  every  hill  they  lie  ; 
On  every  field  of  strife,  made  red 

By  bloody  victory. 
Each  valley,  where  the  battle  poured 

Its  red  and  awful  tide, 
Beheld  the  brave  New  England  sword 

With  slaughter  deeply  dyed. 
Their  bones  are  on  the  northern  hill, 

And  on  the  southern  plain, 
By  brook  and  river,  lake  and  rill, 

And  by  the  roaring  main. 

The  land  is  holy  where  they  fought, 

And  holy  where  they  fell ; 
For  by  their  blood  that  land  was  bought, 

The  land  they  loved  so  well. 
Then  glory  to  that  valiant  band, 
The  honored  saviors  of  the  land  ! 


382  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

O,  few  and  weak  their  numbers  were — 

A  handful  of  brave  men  ; 
But  to  their  God  they  gave  their  prayer, 

And  rushed  to  battle  then. 
The  God  of  battles  heard  their  cry, 
And  sent  to  them  the  victory. 

They  left  the  ploughshare  in  the  mould, 
Their  flocks  and  herds  without  a  fold, 
The  sickle  in  the  unshorn  grain, 
The  corn,  half-garnered,  on  the  plain, 
And  mustered,  in  their  simple  dress, 
For  wrongs  to  seek  a  stern  redress, 
To  right  those  wrongs,  come  weal,  come  wo, 
To  perish,  or  o'ercome  their  foe. 

And  where  are  ye,  0 -fearless  men  ? 

And  where  are  ye  to-day  ? 
I  call : — the  hills  reply  again 

That  ye  have  passed  away ; 
That  on  old  Bunker's  lonely  height, 

In  Trenton,  and  in  Monmouth  ground, 
The  grass  grows  green,  the  harvest  bright, 

Above  each  soldier's  mound. 

The  hugle's  wild  and  warlike  blast 

Shall  muster  them  no  more  ; 
An  army  now  might  thunder  past, 

And  they  heed  not  its  roar. 
The  starry  flag,  'neath  which  they  fought, 

In  many  a  bloody  day, 
From  their  old  graves  shall  rouse  them  not, 

For  they  have  passed  away. 


Installation  Hymn. — Pierpont. 

"  Let  there  be  light!" — When  from  on  high, 
O  God,  that  first  commandment  came, 

Forth  leaped  the  sun  ;  and  earth  and  sky 
Lay  in  his  light,  and  felt  his  flame. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.       383 

"  Let  there  be  light !" — The  light  of  grace 

And  truth,  a  darkling  world  to  bless, 
Came  with  thy  word,  when  on  our  race 

Broke  forth  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 

Light  of  our  souls  !  how  strong  it  grows  ! 

That  sun,  how  wide  his  beams  he  flings, 
As  up  the  glorious  sky  he  goes, 

With  light  and  healing  in  his  wings  ! 

Give  us  that  light !     O  God,  'tis  given ! 

Hope  sees  it  open  heaven's  wide  halls 
To  those  who  for  the  truth  have  striven ; 

And  Faith  walks  firmly  where  it  falls. 

Churches  no  more,  in  cold  eclipse, 

Mourn  the  withholding  of  its  rays; 
It  gilds  their  gates,  and  on  the  lips 

Of  every  faithful  preacher  plays. 

Doth  not  its  circle  clasp  the  brows 

Of  him  who,  in  the  strength  of  youth, 
Gives  himself  up,  in  this  day's  vows, 

A  minister  of  grace  and  truth  ? 

Long  may  it,  Lord  ; — nor  let  his  soul 

Go  through  death's  gloomy  vale  alone ; 
But  bear  it  on  to  its  high  goal, 

Wrapped  in  the  light  that  veils  thy  throne. 


The  Wanderer  of  Africa. — Alonzo  Lewis. 

He  launched  his  boat  where  the  dark  waves  flow, 
Through  the  desert  that  never  was  white  with  snow, 
When  the  wind  was  still,  and  the  sun  shone  bright, 
And  the  stream  glowed  red  with  the  morning  light. 

He  had  sat  in  the  cool  of  the  palm's  broad  shade, 
And  drank  of  the  fountain  of  Kafnah's  glade, 
When  the  herb  was  scorched  by  the  sun's  hot  ray, 
And  the  camel  failed  on  his  thirsty  way. 


384  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  the  dark  maids  of  Sego  their  mats  had  spread, 
And  sung  all  night  by  the  stranger's  bed  ; 
And  his  sleep  was  sweet  on  that  desert  sand, 
For  his  visions  were  far  in  his  own  loved  land. 

He  was  weary  and  faint  in  a  stranger  clime, 

But  his  soul  was  at  home  as  in  youth's  sweet  time ; 

And  he  lay  in  the  shade,  by  his  cot's  clear  pool, 

And  the  breeze  which  came  by  was  refreshing  and  cool ; 

And  the  look  of  his  mother  was  gentle  and  sweet, 
And  he  heard  the  loved  steps  of  his  sister's  light  feet ; 
And  their  voices  were  soft,  and  expressive,  and  low, 
Like  the  distant  rain,  or  the  brook's  calm  flow. 

And  this  was  the  song  which  the  dark  maids  sung, 
In  the  beautiful  strains  of  their  own  wild  tongue  : — 
"  The  stranger  came  far,  and  sat  under  our  tree ; 
We  will  bring  him  sweet  food,  for  no  sister  has  he." 

And  the  stranger  went  forth  when  the  night-breeze  had  died 
And  launched  his  light  bark  on  the  Joliba's  tide  ; 
And  he  waved  his  white  kerchief  to  those  dark  maids, 
As  he  silently  entered  the  palmy  shades. 

And  the  maidens  of  Sego  were  sad  and  lone, 
And  sung  their  rude  song,  like  the  death  spirit's  moan : — 
"  The  stranger  has  gone  where  the  simoom  will  burn : 
Alas  !  for  the  white  man  will  never  return!" 


A  Legend. — J.  G.  Whittier. 

The  hunter  went  forth  with  his  dog  and  gun, 
In  the  earliest  glow  of  the  golden  sun ; 
The  trees  of  the  forest  bent  over  his  way, 
In  the  changeful  colors  of  autumn  gay ; 
For  a  frost  had  fallen,  the  night  before, 
On  the  quiet  greenness  which  nature  wore : — 

A  bitter  frost ! — for  the  night  was  chill, 
And  starry  and  dark,  and  the  wind  was  still ; 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  385 

And  so,  when  the  sun  looked  out  on  the  hills, 
On  the  stricken  woods  and  the  frosted  rills, 
The  unvaried  green  of  the  landscape  fled, 
And  a  wild,  rich  robe  was  given  instead. 

We  know  not  whither  the  hunter  went, 

Or  how  the  last  of  his  days  was  spent ; 

For  the  noon  drew  nigh ;  but  he  came  not  back, 

Weary  and  faint,  from  his  forest-track ; 

And  his  wife  sat  down  to  her  frugal  board, 

Beside  the  empty  seat  of  her  lord. 

And  the  day  passed  on,  and  the  sun  came  down 
To  the  hills  of  the  west  like  an  angel's  crown ; 
The  shadows  lengthened  from  wood  and  bill, 
The  mist  crept  up  from  the  meadow-rill, 
Till  the  broad  sun  sank,  and  the  red  light  rolled 
All  over  the  west  like  a  wave  of  gold. 

Yet  he  came  not  back — though  the  stars  gave  forth 

Their  wizard  light  to  the  silent  earth ; 

And  his  wife  looked  out  from  the  lattice  dim 

In  the  earnest  manner  of  fear  for  him ; 

And  his  fair-haired  child  on  the  door-stone  stood 

To  welcome  his  father  back  from  the  wood ! 

He  came  not  back — yet  they  found  him  soon 

In  the  burning  light  of  the  morrow's  noon, 

In  the  fixed  and  visionless  sleep  of  death, 

Where  the  red  leaves  fell  at  the  soft  wind's  breath ; 

And  the  dog,  whose  step  in  the  chase  was  fleet, 

Crouched  silent  and  sad  at  the  hunter's  feet. 

He  slept  in  death ; — but  his  sleep  was  one 

Which  his  neighbors  shuddered  to  look  upon ; 

For  his  brow  was  black,  and  his  open  eye 

Was  red  with  the  sign  of  agony  ; — 

And  they  thought,  as  they  gazed  on  his  features  grim, 

That  an  evil  deed  had  been  done  on  him. 

They  buried  him  where  his  fathers  laid, 
By  the  mossy  mounds  in  the  grave-yard  shade  ; 
Yet  whispers  of  doubt  passed  over  the  dead, 
And  beldames  muttered  while  prayers  were  said ; 
33 


386  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

And  the  hand  of  the  sexton  shook  as  he  pressed 
The  damp  earth  down  on  the  hunter's  breast. 

The  seasons  passed ;  and  the  autumn  rain 
And  the  colored  forest  returned  again: 
'Twas  the  very  eve  that  the  hunter  died ; 
The  winds  wailed  over  the  bare  hill-side, 
And  the  wreathing  limbs  of  the  forest  shook 
Their  red  leaves  over  the  swollen  brook. 

There  came  a  sound  on  the  night-air  then, 

Like  a  spirit-shriek,  to  the  homes  of  men, 

And  louder  and  shriller  it  rose  again, 

Like  the  fearful  cry  of  the  mad  with  pain ; 

And  trembled  alike  the  timid  and  brave, 

For  they  knew  that  it  came  from  the  hunter's  grave : 

And,  every  year,  when  autumn  flings 
Its  beautiful  robe  on  created  things, 
When  Piscataqua's  tide  is  turbid  with  rain, 
And  Cocheco's  woods  are  yellow  again, 
That  cry  is  heard  from  the  grave-yard  earth, 
Like  the  howl  of  a  demon  struggling  forth. 


They  heard  a  Voice  from  Heaven,  saying,  Come  up 
hither"     Rev.  xi.  12. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 


"  Ye  have  a  land  of  mist  and  shade, 

Where  spectres  roam  at  will ; 
Dense  clouds  your  mountain  heights  invade, 

And  damps  your  valleys  chill ; — 
But  ne'er  may  midnight  care,  or  wo, 

Eclipse  our  changeless  ray ; 
4  Come  hither?  if  ye  seek  to  know 

The  bliss  of  perfect  day. 

"  Doubt,  like  the  Boh  an- Upas,  spreads 

A  blight  where'er  ye  tread ; 
And  Hope,  a  pensive  mourner,  sheds 

The  tear  o'er  harvests  dead  : 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  387 

With  us,  no  traitorous  foe  assails, 

When  Love  her  home  would  make ; 
An  angel's  welcome  never  fails ; 

1  Come/  and  that  warmth  partake. 

"  Time  revels  'mid  your  dearest  joys, 

Death  smites  your  brightest  rose, 
And  Sin  your  bower  of  peace  destroys  ; 

Where  will  ye  find  repose  ? 
Ye're  wearied  in  your  pilgrim  race, 

Sharp  thorns  your  path  infest ; 
e  Come  hither/  rise  to  our  embrace, 

And  Christ  shall  give  you  rest." 

'Twas  thus,  at  twilight's  hallowed  hour, 

The  angels'  lay  came  down, 
Like  dews  upon  the  sick'ning  flower, 

When  droughts  of  summer  frown: 
How  sweet,  upon  the  ambient  air, 

Swelled  out  their  music  free  ! 
0,  when  the  pangs  of  death  I  bear, 

Sing  ye  that  song  to  me. 


Occasional  Hymn. — J.  Pierpont. 

0  Thou,  to  whom,  in  ancient  time, 
The  lyre  of  Hebrew  bards  was  strung, 

Whom  kings  adored  in  song  sublime, 
And  prophets  praised  with  glowing  tongue,- 

Not  now,  on  Zion's  height  alone, 
Thy  favored  worshipper  may  dwell, 

Nor  where,  at  sultry  noon,  thy  Son 
Sat,  weary,  by  the  Patriarch's  well. 

From  every  place  below  the  skies, 

The  grateful  song,  the  fervent  prayer — 

The  incense  of  the  heart — may  rise 

To  Heaven,  and  find  acceptance  there. 

In  this  Thy  house,  whose  doors  we  now 

For  social  worship  first  unfold, 
To  Thee  the  suppliant  throng  shall  bow, 

While  circling  years  on  years  are  rolled. 


388  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

To  Thee  shall  Age,  with  snowy  hair, 

And  Strength  and  Beauty,  bend  the  knee, 

And  Childhood  lisp,  with  reverent  air, 
Its  praises  and  its  prayers  to  Thee. 

O  Thou,  to  whom,  in  ancient  time, 
The  lyre  of  prophet  bards  was  strung, 

To  Thee,  at  last,  in  every  clime, 

Shall  temples  rise,  and  praise  be  sung. 


The  Sleeper. — Commercial,  Advertiser. 

It  was  the  spring-time  in  its  earliest  hour : 

Few  blossoms  then  had  of  the  year  been  born ; 
The  fresh  winds  whispered  to  the  unfolding  flower, 

Where  nestled  dews  of  the  unsullied  morn: 
Songs  like  to  Eden's  sweetened  all  the  air, 

And  birds  and  brooks  their  hymns  together  blent j 
Those  in  the  heavens  and  these  on  earth  were  fair : 

These  midst  the  flowers,  those  in  their  incense  went. 

My  little  cousin  had  been  roaming  then, 

At  early  dawn,  along  the  upland  side  ; 
O'er  dewy  slope,  green  lawn,  and  shaded  glen, 

Standing  by  sister  blossoms,  side  by  side  ; 
And,  wearied  with  the  pleasant  tour,  returned, 

Upon  her  couch  the  sinless  wanderer  lay; 
And  sleep  had  won  her,  with  sweet  visions,  earned 

By  radiant  scenes  upon  that  early  day. 

Her  fair  cheek  pressed  her  pillow  ;  in  her  hair, 

Her  darkly  golden  hair,  some  buds  reposed ; 
And  silken  lashes,  o'er  her  blue  eyes  fair, 

In  a  faint  glimpse  the  hue  beneath  disclosed : 
A  pure  white  rose  was  in  her  fairy  hand ; 

And,  gazing  on  her  with  a  tearful  eye, 
"  Dear  one,"  I  said,  "  on  youth's  enchanted  land, 

Be  ever  thus,  beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
Till,  a  pure  flower  of  heaven,  thou  art  removed  on  higl 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  389 


God's  Omnipresent  Agency. — Carlos  Wilcox. 

How  desolate  were  nature,  and  how  void 
Of  every  charm,  how  like  a  naked  waste 
Of  Africa,  were  not  a  present  God 
Beheld  employing,  in  its  various  scenes, 
His  active  might  to  animate  and  adorn ! 
What  life  and  beauty,  when,  in  all  that  breathes, 
Or  moves,  or  grows,  his  hand  is  viewed  at  work ! — 
When  it  is  viewed  unfolding  every  bud, 
Each  blossom  tinging,  shaping  every  leaf, 
Wafting  each  cloud  that  passes  o'er  the  sky, 
Rolling  each  billow,  moving  every  wing 
That  fans  the  air,  and  every  warbling  throat 
Heard  in  the  tuneful  woodlands  !     In  the  least, 
As  well  as  in  the  greatest  of  his  works, 
Is  ever  manifest  his  presence  kind ; 
As  well  in  swarms  of  glittering  insects,  seen 
Quick  to  and  fro,  within  a  foot  of  air, 
Dancing  a  merry  hour,  then  seen  no  more, 
As  in  the  systems  of  resplendent  worlds, 
Through  time  revolving  in  unbounded  space. 
His  eye,  while  comprehending  in  one  view 
The  whole  creation,  fixes  full  on  me  ; 
As  on  me  shines  the  sun  with  his  full  blaze, 
While  o'er  the  hemisphere  he  spreads  the  same. 
His  hand,  while  holding  oceans  in  its  palm, 
And  compassing  the  skies,  surrounds  my  life, 
Guards  the  poor  rush-light  from  the  blast  of  death. 


Tlie  Farewell. — Anonymous. 

"  Mea  patria,  vale  '." 

"  My  native  land,  good  night  1" — 

My  native  land,  adieu,  adieu  ! 

My  course  is  o'er  the  sea : 
I  sail  upon  the  waters  blue, 

Far,  far  away  from  thee  : 
Those  scenes,  to  youth  and  hope  so  dear, 

Which  active  childhood  know, 
33* 


390  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Demand  my  last,  my  parting  tear ; 
My  native  land,  adieu  ! — 

My  native  land,  adieu,  adieu ! 

My  course  is  o'er  the  sea : 
And  yet  a  heart  more  fond,  more  true, 

Sure  never  beat  for  thee  ! 
O,  I  have  joyed  to  see  thy  power, 

Have  wept  thy  crimes  to  view ; 
Affection  claims  my  parting  hour : 

My  native  land,  adieu ! 

My  native  land,  adieu,  adieu  ! 

My  course  is  o'er  the  sea : 
Though  distant  climes" I  sail  to  view, 

Still  memory  turns  to  thee  : — 
There,  crowned  with  health,  with  peace  and  love 

My  early  moments  flew  ; 
Sure  these  my  fond  affection  prove  : 

My  native  land,  adieu  ! 

My  native  land,  adieu,  adieu ! 

My  course  is  o'er  the  sea : 
O,  would  that  Heaven  would  guide  me  through, 

And  lead  me  back  to  thee ! 
But  no, — a  warning  voice  declares 

My  years — my  days  are  few  : 
I  go: — be  thine  my  ardent  prayers: 

My  native  land,  adieu  ! 


Sunrise  on  the  Hills. — Anonymous. 

I  stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 
Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 

Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 
The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me ;  bathed  in  light, 
They  gathered  midway  round  the  wooded  height, 

And  in  their  fading  glory  shone 

Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown — 
As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 
Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  391 

And,  rocking  on  the  cliff,  was  left 

The  dark  pine,  blasted,  bare  and  cleft. 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted  ;  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 

Was  darkened  by  the  forest  shade, 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade, 
Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash ; 

I  heard  the  current  whirl  and  flash  ; 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 

Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 

The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills, 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 

Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout 

That,  faint  and  far,  the  glen  sent  out; 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke 
Through  thick-leaved  branches  from  the  dingle  broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 

With  sorrows  that  thou  wouldst  forget — 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting,  and  thy  soul  from  sleep — 

Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  ! — no  tears 

Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


Lines  on  passing  the  Grave  of  my  Sister. 
Micah  P.  Flint. 

On  yonder  shore,  on  yonder  shore, 
ISow  verdant  with  the  depth  of  shade, 

Beneath  the  white-armed  sycamore, 
There  is  a  little  infant  laid. 

Forgive  this  tear.     A  brother  weeps. 

'Tis  there  the  faded  floweret  sleeps. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone, 
And  summer's  forests  o'er  her  wave ; 

And  sighing  winds  at  autumn  moan 
Around  the  little  stranger's  grave, 

As  though  they  murmured  at  the  fate 

Of  one  so  lone  and  desolate. 


392  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

In  sounds  that  seem  like  Sorrow's  own, 
Their  funeral  dirges  faintly  creep  ; 

Then,  deep'ning  to  an  organ  tone, 
In  all  their  solemn  cadence  sweep, 

And  pour,  unheard,  along  the  wild, 

Their  desert  anthem  o'er  a  child. 

She  came,  and  passed.     Can  I  forget, 

How  we,  whose  hearts  had  hailed  her  birth, 

Ere  three  autumnal  suns  had  set, 
Consigned  her  to  her  mother  Earth ! 
}  Joys  and  their  memories  pass  away ; 

But  griefs  are  deeper  traced  than  they. 

We  laid  her  in  her  narrow  cell, 

We  heaped  the  soft  mould  on  her  breast, 

And  parting  tears,  like  rain-drops,  fell 
Upon  her  lonely  place  of  rest. 

May  angels  guard  it ;— may  they  bless 
.        Her  slumbers  in  the  wilderness. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone ; 

For,  all  unheard,  on  yonder  shore, 
The  sweeping  flood,  with  torrent  moan, 

At  evening  lifts  its  solemn  roar, 
As,  in  one  broad,  eternal  tide, 
Its  rolling  waters  onward  glide. 

There  is  no  marble  monument, 

There  is  no  stone,  with  graven  lie. 

To  tell  of  love  and  virtue  blent 
In  one  almost  too  good  to  die. 

We  needed  no  such  useless  trace 

To  point  us  to  her  resting  place. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone ; 

But,  midst  the  tears  of  April  showers, 
The  genius  of  the  wild  hath  strown 

His  germs  of  fruits,  his  fairest  flowers, 
And  cast  his  robe  of  vernal  bloom, 
In  guardian  fondness,  o'er  her  tomb. 

She  sleeps  alone,  she  sleeps  alone ; 
But  yearly  is  her  grave-turf  dressed, 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  393 

And  still  the  summer  vines  are  thrown, 
In  annual  wreaths,  across  her  breast. 
And  still  the  sighing  autumn  grieves, 
And  strews  the  hallowed  spot  with  leaves. 


The  Revellers. — Ohio  Backwoodsman. 

There  were  sounds  of  mirth  and  joyousness 

Broke  forth  in  the  lighted  hall, 
And  there  was  many  a  merry  laugh, 

And  many  a  merry  call ; 
And  the  glass  was  freely  passed  around, 

And  the  nectar  freely  quaffed ; 
And  many  a  heart  felt  light  with  glee 

And  the  joy  of  the  thrilling  draught. 

A  voice  arose  in  that  place  of  mirth, 

And  a  glass  was  flourished  high  ; 
"  I  drink  to  Life,"  said  a  son  of  earth, 

"  And  I  do  not  fear  to  die  ; 
I  have  no  fear — I  have  no  fear — 

Talk  not  of  the  vagrant  Death  ; 
For  he  is  a  grim  old  gentleman, 

And  he  wars  but  with  his  breath. 

Cheer,  comrades,  cheer  !     We  drink  to  Life, 

And  we  do  not  fear  to  die  !" 
Just  then  a  rushing  sound  was  heard, 

As  of  spirits  sweeping  by  ; 
And  presently  the  latch  flew  up, 

And  the  door  flew  open  wide  ; 
And  a  stranger  strode  within  the  hall, 

With  an  air  of  martial  pride. 

He  spoke  :  "  I  join  in  your  revelry, 

Bold  sons  of  the  Bacchan  rite  ; 
And  I  drink  the  toast  you  have  drank  before, 

The  pledge  of  yon  dauntless  knight. 
Fill  high — fill  high — we  drink  to  Life, 

And  we  scorn  the  reaper  Death ; 
For  he  is  a  grim  old  gentleman, 

And  he  wars  but  with  his  breath. 


394  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

He's  a  noble  soul,  that  champion  knight, 

And  he  bears  a  martial  brow  ; 
O,  he'll  pass  the  gates  of  Paradise, 

To  the  regions  of  bliss  below  !" 
This  was  too  much  for  the  Bacchan ; 

Fire  flashed  from  his  angry  eye  ; 
A  muttered  curse,  and  a  vengeful  oath — 

"  Intruder,  thou  shalt  die  !" 

He  struck— -and  the  stranger's  guise  fell  off, 

And  a  phantom  form  stood  there — 
A  grinning,  and  ghastly,  and  horrible  thing, 

With  rotten  and  mildewed  hair ! 
And  they  struggled  awhile,  till  the  stranger  blew 

A  blast  of  his  withering  breath; 
And  the  Bacchanal  feH  at  the  phantom's  feet, 

And  his  conqueror  was — Death. 


"  I  would  not  live  always." — B.  B.  Thatcher. 

Earth  is  the  spirit's  rayless  cell ; 
But  then,  as  a  bird  soars  home  to  the  shade 
Of  the  beautiful  wood,  where  its  nest  was  made, 

In  bonds  no  more  to  dwell ; — 

So  will  its  weary  wing 
Be  spread  for  the  skies,  when  its  toil  is  done, 
And  its  breath  flow  free,  as  a  bird's  in  the  sun, 

And  the  soft,  fresh  gales  of  spring. 

O,  not  more  sweet  the  tears 
Of  the  dewy  eve  on  the  violet  shed, 
Than  the  dews  of  age  on  the  "  hoary  head," 

When  it  enters  the  eve  of  years. 

Nor  dearer,  mid  the  foam 
Of  the  far-off  sea,  and  its'  stormy  roar, 
Is  a  breath  of  balm  from  the  unseen  shore, 

To  him  that  weeps  for  home. 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      395 

Wings,  like  a  dove,  to  fly  ! — 
The  spirit  is  faint  with  its  feverish  strife  ; — 
O,  for  its  home  in  the  upper  Life  ! 

When,  when  will  Death  draw  nigh ! 


The  Disimbodied  Spirit. — Peabody. 

O  sacred  star  of  evening,  tell 

In  what  unseen,  celestial  sphere, 
Those  spirits  of  the  perfect  dwell* 

Too  pure  to  rest  in  sadness  here; 

Roam  they  tl)e  crystal  fields  of  light, 

O'er  paths  by  holy  angels  trod, 
Their  robes  with  heavenly  lustre  bright, 

Their  home,  the  Paradise  of  God  ? 

Soul  of  the  just !  and  canst  thou  soar 
Amidst  those  radiant  spheres  sublime, 

Where  countless  hosts  of  heaven  adore, 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  space  or  time  ?- — 

And  canst  thou  join  the  sacred  choir, 

Through  heaven's  high  dome  the  song  to  raise, 
WThere  seraphs  strike  the  golden  lyre 

In  everduring  notes  of  praise  ? 

Oh  !  who  would  heed  the  chilling  blast, 
That  blows  o'er  time's  eventful  sea, 

If  bid  to  hail,  its  perils  past, 
The  bright  wave  of  eternity  ! 

And  who  the  sorrows  would  not  bear 

Of  such  a  transient  world  as  this, 
When  hope  displays,  beyond  its  care, 

So  bright  an  entrance  into  bliss ! 


39G  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    TOETRY. 


Lines  on  hearing  of  the  Death  of  Garafilia  Mohalbi. — 
Mrs.    Sigourney. 

Sweet  bird  of  Ipsera!  that  fled 

From  tyrants  o'er  the  tossing  sea, 
And  on  the  winds  of  freedom  shed 

Thy  wildly  classic  melody, — 
Love  at  thy  tender  warbling  woke, 

A  foreign  land  was  home  to  thee, 
And  stranger  voices  fondly  spoke 

The  welcome  of  paternity. 

Why  was  thy  tarrying  here  so  brief, 

Thou  sheltered  in  affection's  breast  ? 
Here  were  no  woes  to  wake  thy  grief, 

Nor  dangers  to  corrode  thy  rest. 
Ah  !  thou  had'st  heard  of  that  blessed  clime 

Where  everlasting  glories  beam  : — 
Perchance  its  groves  and  skies  sublime 

Had  burst  upon  thy  raptured  dream. 

Thy  bright  wing  spread.     Should  aught  detain 

The  prisoner  in  a  cage  of  clay, 
When,  echoing  from  the  heavenly  plain, 

Congenial  tones  forbid  delay  ? 
No :   where  no  archer's  shaft  can  fly, 

No  winter  check  the  tuneful  sphere, 
Rise,  wanderer,  to  thy  native  sky, 

And  warble  in  a  Savior's  ear. 


Crossing  the  Ford. — O.  W.  H. 

Clouds,  forests,  hills,  and  waters  ! — and  they  sleep 
As  if  a  spirit  pressed  their  pulses  down, 

From  the  calm  bosom  of  the  waveless  deep 
Up  to  the  mountain  with  its  sunlit  crown, 

Still  as  the  moss-grown  cities  of  the  dead, 

Save  the  dull  plashing  of  the  horse's  tread. 

And  who  are  they  that  stir  the  slumbering  stream  ? 
Nay,  curious  reader  ;  I  can  only  say 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  397 

That,  to  my  eyes  of  ignorance,  they  seem 

Like  honest  rustics  on  the  homeward  way ; 
There  is  a  village  ;  doubtless  thence  they  came  ; 
There  was  a  christening;  and  they  have  a  name. 

They  are  to  us,  like  many  a  living  form, 

The  image  of  a  moment ;  and  they  pass 
Like  the  last  cloud  that  vanished  on  the  storm, 

Like  the  last  shape  upon  the  faithless  glass  ; 
By  lake,  or  stream,  by  valley,  field,  or  hill, 
They  must  have  lived ;  perchance  are  living  still. 


Hymn  of  the  Cherokee  Indian. — I.  McLellan,  Jun. 

They  waste  us  ;  ay,  like  April  snow 

In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away  ; 
And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go, 

Towards  the  setting  day, 
Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 
Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. 

Bryant, 

Like  the  shadows  in  the  stream, 
Like  the  evanescent  gleam 
Of  the  twilight's  failing  blaze, 
Like  the  fleeting  years  and  days, 
Like  all  things  that  soon  decay, 
Pass  the  Indian  tribes  away. 

Indian  son,  and  Indian  sire  ! 
Lo  !  the  embers  of  your  fire, 
On  the  wigwam  hearth,  burn  low, 
Never  to  revive  its  glow  ; 
And  the  Indian's  heart  is  ailing, 
And  the  Indian's  blood  is  failing. 

Now  the  hunter's  bow's  unbent, 
And  his  arrows  all  are  spent ! 
Like  a  very  little  child 
Is  the  red  man  of  the  wild ; 
To  his  day  there'll  dawn  no  morrow 
Therefore  is  he  full  of  sorrow. 
34 


398  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

From  his  hills  the  stag  is  fled, 
And  the  fallow-deer  are  dead, 
And  the  wild  beasts  of  the  chase 
Are  a  lost  and  perished  race, 
And  the  birds  have  left  the  mountain, 
And  the  fishes,  the  clear  fountain. 

Indian  woman,  to  thy  breast 
Closer  let  thy  babe  be  pressed, 
For  thy  garb  is  thin  and  old, 
And  the  winter  wind  is  cold ; 
On  thy  homeless  head  it  dashes ; 
Round  thee  the  grim  lightning  flashes 

We,  the  rightful  lords  of  yore. 
Are  the  rightful  lords  no  more  ; 
Like  the  silver  mist  we  fail, 
Like  the  red  leaves  in  the  gale, — 
Fail  like  shadows,  when  the  dawning 
Waves  the  brigh-t  flag  of  the  morning. 

By  the  river's  lonely  marge, 
Rotting  is  the  Indian's  barge  ; 
And  his  hut  is  ruined  now, 
On  the  rocky  mountain  brow  ; 
The  fathers'  bones  are  all  neglected, 
And  the  children's  hearts  dejected. 

Therefore,  Indian  people,  flee 
To  the  farthest  western  sea ; 
Let  us  yield  our  pleasant  land 
To  the  stranger's  stronger  hand  ; 
Red  men  and  their  realms  must  sever ; 
They  forsake  them,  and  forever ! 


Lake  Superior. — S.  G.  Goodrich. 

"  Father  of  lakes  !"  thy  waters  bend 
Beyond  the  eagle's  utmost  view, 

When,  throned  in  heaven,  he  sees  thee  send 
Back  to  the  sky  its  world  of  blue. 


4 

COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      399 

Boundless  and  deep,  the  forests  weave 

Their  twilight  shade  thy  borders  o'er, 
And  threatening  cliffs,  like  giants,  heave 

Their  rugged  forms  along  thy  shore. 

Pale  Silence,  mid  thy  hollow  caves, 

With  listening  ear,  in  sadness  broods  ; 
Or  startled  Echo,  o'er  thy  waves, 

Sends  the  hoarse  wolf-notes  of  thy  woods. 

Nor  can  the  light  canoes,  that  glide 

Across  thy  breast  like  things  of  air, 
Chase  from  thy  lone  and  level  tide 

The  spell  of  stillness  reigning  there. 

Yet  round  this  waste  of  wood  and  wave, 

Unheard,  unseen,  a  spirit  lives, 
That,  breathing  o'er  each  rock  and  cave, 

To  all  a  wild,  strange  aspect  gives. 

The  thunder-riven  oak,  that  flings 

Its  grisly  arms  athwart  the  sky, 
A  sudden,  startling  image  brings 

To  the  lone  traveller's  kindled  eye. 

The  gnarled  and  braided  boughs,  that  show 

Their  dim  forms  in  the  forest  shade, 
Like  wrestling  serpents  seem,  and  throw 

Fantastic  horrors  through  the  glade. 

The  very  echoes  round  this  shore 

Have  caught  a  strange  and  gibbering  tone ; 

For  they  have  told  the  war-whoop  o'er? 
Till  the  wild  chorus  is  their  own. 

Wave  Of  the  wilderness,  adieu ! 

Adieu,  ye  rocks,  ye  wilds  and  woods ! 
Roll  on,  thou  element  of  blue, 

And  fill  these  awful  solitudes ! 

Thou  hast  no  tale  to  tell  of  man — 

God  is  thy  theme.     Y^e  sounding  caves — 

Whisper  of  Him,  whose  mighty  plan 
Deems  as  a  bubble  all  your  waves  ! 


400  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Oriental  J\Iysticis?7i. — Leonard  Woods. 

The  following  passage  is  translated  from  a  German  version  of  the  Dscuna- 
har  Odsat,  a  Persian  poem  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  is  here  orlerod 
as  a  specimen  of  the  mystic  writings  of  the  East, —  a  single  sprig  bronght 
to  town  from  a  distant  and  unfrequented  garden.  These  writings  are  char- 
acterized by  wildness  of  fancy,  a  philosophy  extremely  abstruse,  and  espe- 
cially by  a  deep  spiritual  life.  They  prove,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  /ines 
which  follow,  that  the  human  mind  has  strong  religious  instincts  ;  which, 
however,  unless  guided  by  a  higher  wisdom,  are  liable  to  great  perver- 
sion.— Extravagant  as  the'  conception  of  the  passage  here  selected  must 
appear  to  us,  it  has  still  its  foundation  in  truth.  That  the  ideas  of 
infinite  and  divine  things,  which  slumber  in  the  mind,  are  often  violently 
awakened  by  external  objects,  is  what  every  one  has  experienced.  Says 
a  modern  poet,  in  prospect  of  "  clear,  placid  Leman," 

''It  is  a  thin? 
Which  warns  me,  by  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring." 

And  what  is  the  story  of  Rudbari  and  Hassan,  but  an  exhibition,  a  la  mode 
orientate,  of  the  same  truth  ? 

In  ancient  days,  as  the  old  stories  run, 
Strange  hap  befell  a  father  and  his  son. 
Rudbari  was  an  old  sea-faring  man, 
And  loved  the  rough  paths  of  the  ocean ; 
And  Hassan  was  his  child, — a  boy  as  bright, 
As  the  keen  moon,  gleaming  in  the  vault  of  night. 
Rose-red  his  cheek,  Narcissus-like  his  eye, 
And  his  form  might  well  with  the  slender  cypress  vie.  - 
Godly  Rudbari  was,  and  just  and  true, 
And  Hassan  pure  as  a  drop  of  early  dew. — • 
Now,  because  Rudbari  loved  this  only  child, 
He  was  feign  to  take  him  o'er  the  waters  wild. 

The  ship  is  on  the  strand — friends,  brothers,  parents,  there 
Take  the  last  leave  with  mingled  tears  and  prayer. 
The  sailor  calls,  the  fair  breeze  chides  delay, 
The  sails  are  spread,  and  all  are  under  way. 
But  when  the  ship,  like  a  strong-shot  arrow,  flew, 
And  the  well  known  shore  was  fading  from  the  view, 
Hassan  spake,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  land, 
Such  mystic  words  as  none  could  understand : — 
"  On  this  troubled  wave  in  vain  we  seek  for  rest. 
Who  builds  his  house  on  the  sea,  or  his  palace  on  its  breast  ? 
Let  me  but  reach  yon  fixed  and  steadfast  shore, 
And  the  bounding  wave  shall  never  tempt  me  more." 
Then  Rudbari  spake  : — "  And  does  my  brave  boy  fear 
The  Ocean's  face  to  see,  and  his  thundering  voice  to  hear  ? 


COMMON-PLACE  BOOK  OF  POETRY.      401 

He  will  love,  when  home  returned  at  last, 

To  tell,  in  his  native  cot,  of  dangers  past." 

Then  Hassan  said  :     "  Think  not  thy  brave  boy  fears 

When  he  sees  the  Ocean's  face,  or  his  voice  of  thunder  hears. 

But  on  these  waters  I  may  not  abide ; 

Hold  me  not  back;  I  will  not  be  denied." 

Rudbari  now  wept  o'er  his  wildered  child : 

"  What  mean  these  looks,  and  words  so  strangely  wild  ? 

Dearer,  my  boy,  to  me  than  all  the  gain 

That  I've  earned  from  the  bounteous  bosom  of  the  main ! 

Nor  heaven,  nor  earth,  could  yield  one  joy  to  me, 

Could  I  not,  Hassan,  share  that  joy  with  thee." 

But  Hassan  soon,  in  his  wandering  words,  betrayed 

The  cause  of  the  mystic  air  that  round  him  played : 

"  Soon  as  I  saw  these  deep,  wide  waters  roll, 

A  light  from  the  Infinite  broke  in  upon  my  soul !" 

"  Thy  words,  my  child,  but  ill  become  thine  age, 

And  would  better  suit  the  mouth  of  some  star-gazing  sage." 

"  Thy  words,  my  father,  cannot  turn  away 

Mine  eye,  now  fixed  on  that  supernal  day." 

"  Dost  thou  not,  Hassan,  lay  these  dreams  aside, 

I'll  plunge  thee  headlong  in  this  whelming  tide." 

'•'  Do  this,  Rudbari,  only  not  in  ire, 

'Tis  all  I  ask,  and  all  I  can  desire. 

For  on  the  bosom  of  this  rolling  flood, 

Slumbers  an  awful  mystery  of  Good  ; 

And  he  may  solve  it,  who  will  self  expunge, 

And  in  the  depths  of  boundless  being  plunge.'  " 

He  spake,  and  plunged,  and  as  quickly  sunk  beneath 
As  the  flying  snow-flake  melts  on  a  summer  heath. 
A  moment  Rudbari  stood,  as  fixedly  bound 
As  the  pearl  is  by  the  shell  that  clasps  it  round. 
Then  he  followed  his  Hassan  with  a  frantic  leap, 
And  they  slumber  both  on  the  bottom  of  the  deep ! 


To  a  Sister  about  to  embark  on  a  Missionary  Enterprise. — 
B.  B.  Thatcher. 

O  sister  !  sister!  hath  the  memory 
Of  other  years  no  power  upon  thy  soul, 
That  thus,  with  tearless  eye,  thou  leavest  me — 
And  an  unfaltering  voice— to  come  no  more  ? 
34' 


402  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY. 

Hast  thou  forgot,  friend  of  my  better  days, 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  early,  innocent  joys 

Of  our  remotest  childhood  ;  when  our  lives 

Were  linked  in  one,  and  our  young  hearts  hloomed  out 

Like  violet-bells  upon  the  self-same  stem, 

Pouring  the  dewy  odors  of  life's  spring 

Into  each  other's  bosom — all  the  bright 

And  sorrowless  thoughts  of  a  confiding  love, 

And  intermingled  vows,  and  blossoming  hopes 

Of  future  good,  and  infant  dreams  of  bliss, 

Budding  and  breathing  sunnily  about  them, 

As  crimson-spotted  cups,  in  spring  time,  hang 

On  all  the  delicate  fibres  of  the  vine  ? 

And  where,  oh !  where  are  the  unnumbered  vows 
We  made,  my  sister,  at  the  twilight  fall, 
A  thousand  times,  and  the  still  starry  hours 
Of  the  dew-glistering  eve — in  many  a  walk 
By  the  green  borders  of  our  native  stream — 
".  And  in  the  chequered  shade  of  these  old  oaks, 
The  moonlight  silvering  o'er  each  mossy  trunk, 
And  every  bough,  as  an  Eolian  harp, 
Full  of  the  solemn  chant  of  the  low  breeze  ? 
Thou  hast  forgotten  this — and  standest  here, 
Thy  hand  in  mine,  and  hearest,  even  now, 
The  rustling  wood,  the  stir  of  falling  leaves, 
And — hark  ! — the  far  ofT  murmur  of  the  brook  ! 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  sister ! — do  not  speak — 
Now  know  I,  by  the  tone,  and  by  the  eye 
Of  tenderness,  with  many  tears  bedimmed, 
Thou  hast  remembered  all.     Thou  measurest  well 
The  work  that  is  before  thee,  and  the  joys 
That  are  behind.     Now,  be  the  past  forgot — 
The  youthful  love,  the  hearth-light  and  the  home, 
Song,  dance,  and  story,  and  the  vows — the  vows 
That  we  would  change  not,  part  not  unto  death — 
Yea,  all  the  spirits  of  departed  bliss, 
That  even  now,  like  spirits  of  the  dead, 
Seen  dimly  in  the  living  mourner's  dreams, 
Are  trilling,  ever  and  anon,  the  notes 
Long  loved  of  old — oh  !  hear  them,  heed  them  not. 
Press  on  !  for,  like  the  fairies  of  the  tale, 
That  mocked,  unseen,  the  tempted  traveller, 
With  power  alone  o'er  those  who  gave  them  ear, 


COiMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  403 

They  would  but  turn  thee  from  a  high  resolve. 

Then  look  not  back  !  oh  !  triumph  in  the  strength 

Of  an  exalted  purpose  !     Eagle-like, 

Press  sunward  on.     Thou  shalt  not  be  alone. 

Have  but  an  eye  on  God,  as  surely  God 

Will  have  an  eye  on  thee — press  on !  press  on ! 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers. — Sprague. 

They  come — that  coming  who  shall  tell  ? 
The  eye  may  weep,  the  heart  may  swell, 
But  the  poor  tongue  in  vain  essays 
A  fitting  note  for  them  to  raise. 
We  hear  the  after-shout  that  rings 
For  them  who  smote  the  power  of  kings ; 
The  swelling  triumph  all  would  share  ; 
But  who  the  dark  defeat  would  dare, 
And  boldly  meet  the  wrath  and  wo, 
That  wait  the  unsuccessful  blow  ? 
It  were  an  envied  fate,  we  deem, 
To  live  a  land's  recorded  theme, 

When  we  are  in  the  tomb. 
We,  too,  might  yield  the  joys  of  home, 
And  waves  of  winter  darkness  roam, 

And  tread  a  shore  of  bloom, 
Knew  we  those  waves,  through  coming  time, 
Should  roll  our  names  to  every  clime ; 
Felt  we  that  millions  on  that  shore 
Should  stand,  our  memory  to  adore. 
But  no  glad  vision  burst  in  light 
Upon  the  pilgrims'  aching  sight ; 
Their  hearts  no  proud  hereafter  swelled; 
Deep  shadows  veiled  the  way  they  held  ; 
The  yell  of  vengeance  was  the  trump  of  fame  ; 
Their  monument,  a  grave  without  a  name. 

Yet,  strong  in  weakness,  there  they  stand, 

On  yonder  ice-bound  rock, 
Stern  and  resolved,  that  faithful  band, 

To  meet  fate's  rudest  shock. 
Though  anguish  rends  the  father's  breast, 
For  them,  his  dearest  and  his  best, 


404  COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF   POETRY. 

With  him  the  waste  who  trod — 
Though  tears  that  freeze,  the  mother  sheds 
Upon  her  children's  houseless  heads — 

The  Christian  turns  to  God ! 

In  grateful  adoration  now, 

Upon  the  barren  sands  they  bow. 

What  tongue  of  joy  e'er  woke  such  prayer 

As  bursts  in  desolation  there  ! 

What  arm  of  strength  e'er  wrought  such  power 

As  waits  to  crown  that  feeble  hour ! 
There  into  life  an  infant  empire  springs ! 

There  falls  the  iron  from  the  soul ; 

There  Liberty's  young  accents  roll 
Up  to  the  King  of  kings  ! 

To  fair  creation's  farthest  bound, 

That  thrilling  summons  yet  shall  sound ; 

The  dreaming  nations  shall  awake, 
And  to  their  centre  earth's. old  kingdoms  shake. 
Pontiff  and  prince,  your  sway 
Must  crumble  from  that  day  ; 

Before  the  loftier  throne  of  Heaven, 

The  hand  is  raised,  the  pledge  is  given, 
One  monarch  to  obey,  one  creed  to  own — 
That  monarch,  God,  that  creed,  his  word  alone. 

Spread  out  earth's  holiest  records  here, 
Of  days  and  deeds  to  reverence  dear, 
A  zeal  like  this  what  pious  legends  tell ! 

On  kingdoms  built 

In  blood  and  guilt, 
The  worshippers  of  vulgar  triumph  dwell ;    , 
But  what  exploits  with  theirs  shall  page, 

Who  rose  to  bless  their  kind, 
Who  left  their  nation  and  their  age, 

Man's  spirit  to  unbind  ! 

Who  boundless  seas  passed  o'er, 
And  boldly  met,  in  every  path, 
Famine,  and  frost,  and  heathen  wrath, 

To  dedicate  a  shore, 
Where  Piety's  meek  train  might  breathe  their  vow, 
And  seek  their  Maker  with  an  unshamed  brow ; 
Where  Liberty's  glad  race  might  proudly  come, 
And  set  up  there  an  everlasting  home  ! 


COMMON-PLACE    BOOK    OF    POETRY.  405 

O,  many  a  time  it  hath  been  told, 
The  story  of  those  men  of  old: 
For  this  fair  Poetry  hath  wreathed 

Her  sweetest,  purest  flower ; 
For  this  proud  Eloquence  hath  breathed 

His  strain  of  loftiest  power  : 
Devotion,  too,  hath  lingered  round 
Each  spot  of  consecrated  ground, 
■     And  hill  and  valley  blessed ; 
There,  where  our  banished  fathers  strayed, 
There,  where  they  loved,  and  wept,  and  prayed, 

There,  where  their  ashes  rest. 

And  never  may  they  rest  unsung 
While  Liberty  can  find  a  tongue. 
Twine,  Gratitude,  a  wreath  for  them, 
More  deathless  than  the  diadem, 

Who  to  life's  noblest  end, 

Gave  up  life's  noblest  powers, 
And  bade  the  legacy  descend, 

Down,  down  to  us  and  ours. 


:•,;/:' V>  .,"^:.i.     -^ 


! 

t;o 

:;t' 


fe^^«w^«^»s®^e'; 


